Mother Love
by thedragonaunt
Summary: There's a bit of a Baby Boom going on in Marylebone. Juggling fatherhood with cracking crime is stretching the Baker Street Boys to the limits of their endurance. Then Mycroft decides to take a holiday? Sequel to 'Demon'. The stunningly beautiful Cover Image is by the SO talented flavialikestodraw. See her work at flavialikestodraw DOT tumblr DOT com. *REVIEWS CONTAIN SPOILERS*
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Mother Love**

**by **

**thedragonaunt**

**Prologue**

Sherlock drew his hands, slowly and smoothly, down either side of the swollen dome of her belly, following the contours of the bulge, from just below her breasts to just above the pubic bone, then down her thighs, to the knees, and back up and round, his hands moving in orbit about her protruding belly button. He then slipped his fingers under her enlarged breasts and stroked up and around the dark pink areoles, increased in size almost to the proportion of the palms of his hands, before moving up to her clavicles, across her shoulders and down her upper arms. Pausing to apply more oil to his left palm, he pressed his hands together, to warm the oil and spread it evenly on both palms, and began the whole process again.

Molly lay back on the pillow, noting, with a small smile, the intense concentration on his face as he performed the ritual of her bio oil massage, for the purpose of warding off stretch marks. He absolutely insisted that he do it, every day. In fact, he would have massaged her morning, noon and night, if she would have let him. He well understood why pre-historic artisans carved totemic images, in stone, of pregnant women and worshiped them as iconic representations of fertility. He adored her fecund body. He thought she had never looked more beautiful.

Molly, on the other hand, felt fat. She felt ungainly and cumbersome. She had not enjoyed this second pregnancy anywhere near as much as she had her first. In truth, the actual experience had been much the same but, this time around, she had William to care for, a bigger home to keep, and then, there was Sherlock. He was attentive to the point of being quite annoying, constantly asking if there were anything she needed, anything he could get her, anything he could do, until she finally snapped and said,

'Yes, Sherlock, you can leave me alone!'

But he had looked so hurt that she immediately retracted the statement and asked him to bring her a glass of milk. She knew she should be grateful but instead, she was impatient and irritable, short-tempered and petulant, in fact, completely not herself. It was the nagging feeling that, to him, it was just another experiment. But then, that was the person he was, wasn't it?

William, for his part, could not quite understand why Mummy had eaten the new baby, but just hoped that he was not to be next on the menu.

ooOoo


	2. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter One**

Molly knew she was pregnant, even before she missed her first period. She remembered the subtle signs from the first time, those signs she had dismissed, chosen to ignore, mainly because she was so consumed by grief that she may never see the love of her life again. This time around, there were no such concerns. Here he was, right by her side, sprawled across the bed, limbs draped loosely around her, face burrowing into her neck, breathing softly against her skin. Typical Sherlock, she thought, the One Shot Wonder. She wondered if it had anything to do with having genius in one's genes. Still, just because they hit the jackpot with their first lottery ticket did not mean they couldn't carry on investing in a good cause, did it? Her midwife had told her that sex was a great form of exercise for pregnant women – particularly good for the pelvic floor muscles – so she intended to keep very fit for the duration of this gestation. She wasn't going to tell him yet, though, just in case something went wrong. No point building his hopes only to have them dashed. Of course, she should have known better than to think she could keep such a thing from the world's only consulting detective – perhaps 'consulting room' detective may have been appropriate in this instance.

Two days later, she had just returned to the sitting room, having put William to bed and Sherlock had just finished loading the dish washer and pressed the button to set it going. This was the time they would normally relax with a glass of merlot or rioja but today he brought her a glass of milk. She looked from the glass to the face of the bearer and he just shrugged and said,

'You're two days late. Don't want to take any risks, do we?' She had to laugh and he just looked puzzled and said,

'Well, it's pretty obvious, really. Your temperature's up by at least one degree, I saw your face when you went to drink your tea this morning, then you left it – and you are two days late. Pretty easy deduction, wouldn't you say?' She kissed him and agreed that, for him, it was absolutely basic stuff. Would she ever stop being surprised by his perceptiveness? She really hoped not. But, at the same time, there was a hint of disappointment that she hadn't been the one to break the news.

Sunday was John's weekend off, so they had arranged to meet at their favourite riverside pub for Sunday lunch. Or rather, they had arranged to meet at John and Mary's favourite riverside pub. Sherlock didn't really go in for social gatherings but he complied because Molly and William enjoyed these outings and it was good to see John in a non-working capacity, sometimes. They were, after all, best friends and had been through a great deal together. John and Mary were already there, seated at their favourite table, when the Hooper-Holmes contingent arrived. William said hello to Uncle John and Aunt Mary, then ran off to the play area. The four grown-ups all exchanged greetings then John asked them what they were drinking.

'Just a soda water for me, thanks, John,' said Molly.

'Just a soda water for me, too,' said Mary, with a coy smile, at which point, John took hold of her hand and proudly announced,

'We're pregnant!'

Molly jumped up to give them both a congratulatory hug and Sherlock shook John's hand and gave Mary a brief peck on the cheek. He was still not entirely easy in her company. Then he said,

'Well, that's a bit of a coincidence. So are we.' It took a moment or two for his cryptic announcement to sink in but then the hugging, handshaking and cheek pecking had to be repeated a second time. Once the congratulations had died down, John and Sherlock went off to the bar to buy the drinks and order the food, whilst the ladies compared due dates and early symptoms.

This being Mary's first baby, she had been further advanced before it even occurred to her that she might be pregnant, even though they had been consciously attempting to procreate for some time, now. She was two months in to Molly's one. Molly was careful to avoid being too knowledgeable about the whole process. She didn't want Mary to feel she was 'pulling rank'. She actually felt a bit guilty, like she was stealing Mary's thunder, being pregnant at the same time, but she knew John would lavish attention on his wife and make her feel like the most important person in the world, which is what every pregnant woman desires.

Standing at the bar, waiting to be served, John said,

'How is everything, then? Haven't seen you for a week or three. How's the therapy?'

'Oh, it's going OK, thanks. To be honest, I don't think I really need it,' Sherlock stated. 'What you said to me, in the hospital, helped most, plus knowing that the Rocky's family didn't blame me and that they took their revenge against the right person. Setting up the Foundation is helping, too, and Molly saying she knew I could never have done such a thing knowingly, that helped more than any amount of therapy. I'm only really continuing with the sessions for Mycroft's sake.' John stepped back in amazement, quite literally.

'Did I hear that right? You are doing this for Mycroft's sake? Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?' John spluttered.

'I'm a bit worried about Mycroft. He's not himself, at the moment,' Sherlock explained.

'In what way?' John asked, intrigued not only by Sherlock's expression of concern for the brother he usually resented for even breathing but also by the suggestion that the omnipotent Mycroft Holmes was showing signs of weakness.

'Well, he's just being too nice, for a start. He keeps agreeing with me about things and he has decided to take a holiday,' exclaimed Sherlock.

'A holiday? Good God, that is worrying. I mean, he never even takes a day off unless it's something utterly compelling – like chasing after a brother, who is running amok in the countryside…' John began.

'Yes, alright, have your little joke at my expense, see if I care,' Sherlock interrupted. 'But, yes, I agree, he never takes time off. He's too much of a control freak. But he told me, the day before yesterday, he's leaving his deputy in charge for two whole weeks.'

'Well, Mycroft has a deputy? Who knew?' John marvelled.

'Well, not the deputy, I shouldn't wonder. It's probably as big a surprise to him or her as it is to us. Mycroft told me that he is taking two weeks, from tomorrow. He said it's the Silly Season, Parliament is in recess and all the politicians are on holiday so he is taking one too,' Sherlock concluded.

'Wow,' replied John. 'I can see why you would be worried. Did he say where he was going?'

'Yes, America.'

'What? Why on earth would he want to go there on holiday? If you'd said Rome, Florence, Corsica, Venice, somewhere like that, I would have thought, yes, that sounds very Mycroft but America, what could possibly be there for him?' John was amazed.

'No idea,' mused Sherlock and he was worried.

ooOoo

William was playing on the swings. He was pretty much oblivious to the other children, as potential playmates, playing around him. He was contemplating an experiment. He had watched a programme, on the television, about conservation of momentum and energy, which had used a Newton's Cradle to demonstrate the theory. William was imagining being part of a Newton's Cradle, as he moved in a pendulum arc, on the swing, and he was imagining the other children being part of the same device. But he could see flaws in the basic format of his experiment, as the other children differed in mass and weight to himself and to each other, so there were too many variables. He didn't really think in terms of the specific scientific vocabulary but he understood the concepts and could see that his experiment would be doomed to failure, so he dismissed it from his mind. He looked, for the first time, at the boy swinging next to him. The boy smiled and said,

'Do you want to play pirates?' William smiled back and put down his feet to drag the swing to an abrupt stop, nodding his head, enthusiastically. The other boy stopped his swing in the same manner and they both ran off to the climbing frame.

ooOoo

When the food arrived at the table, Sherlock stood up to go and retrieve William from the play area. He saw him at the top of the climbing frame, standing on the apex, looking out at the surrounding area, as though surveying his territory. He stood upright, perfectly balanced, not holding on to any of the available handholds, completely at ease in the environment. Sherlock remembered how he used to do that – find the highest point and just stand there looking out. He remembered how Mycroft used to call from the ground, urging him to come down before he fell, though he knew there was never any possibility that he might. Mycroft had always looked out for him, even when it was completely unnecessary. He thought he should be looking out for Mycroft, now, because he sensed that something wasn't right with his older brother. He just wished he knew what that was. Standing at the base of the climbing frame, Sherlock looked up at William and said,

'Lunch is here, Will. Come and eat.' William looked down, smiled and deftly climbed most of the way down the climbing frame before launching himself into the air, to be neatly caught and swung around by Sherlock, who had known he was going to do that, even before he knew it himself.

ooOoo

Throughout their time together, Molly and Sherlock had never had an argument. But, on arriving home that day, they had their first. It was a rather one sided affair and it all came from Molly.

'Why are you so off with Mary?' she asked, rather abruptly. They had just entered the flat and William had run off to his room to play. Sherlock was taken by surprise by her tone but he gave the question due consideration.

'I'm not off with her. I just don't know her.'

'You'll never get to know her, if you don't talk to her,' Molly retorted.

'I listen to what she says. You know, I've never really taken to any of John's girlfriends.'

'She's not his girlfriend, Sherlock, she's his wife. And they're having a baby, whether you like it or not.'

He stared at her, really shocked.

'What's that supposed to mean?' he asked, feeling confused. 'They met while I was away. You all got to know her and I didn't. They're happy. How does that have anything to do with me?'

'You make it awkward when we are all together. She knows you don't like her.'

'I don't dislike her. Like I said before, I just don't know her. Why should you care, anyway?'

'Because she's John's wife and he must feel it too.'

'He hasn't said anything.'

'Well, of course he hasn't. He knows better than to even try.'

'Which, apparently, you don't,' he retorted. He then turned and walked out of the flat.

ooOoo

He went back to Baker Street and threw himself on the sofa. Molly had always been calm, understanding, the peace maker. Suddenly, she was confrontational, touchy, and volatile. He didn't know how to cope with this. So he had done what John had always done, when they had argued – he had walked away. He thought Molly was being unreasonable but he assumed it was because she was hormonal. He would have to make allowances but he wasn't good at reading emotions so he knew this was going to be difficult. He felt guilty but he was also hurt. He didn't think he deserved the accusations she had made. He was fine with John's situation. Was she inferring he was jealous? Why would he be? The more he thought about the argument, the more confused he became. In the end, he decided to just dismiss it from his mind. He got up from the couch, threw off his coat and scarf and went into the kitchen, to check on some experiments he had set up on Friday.

ooOoo

Molly was in the bedroom, applying her bio oil, when she heard Sherlock come back into the flat. She was still annoyed with him, for walking out, but at the same time, she knew that she had been unreasonable. She waited to see how he would behave, now he was back. He came into the bedroom, saw what she was doing and came over to the bed. Picking up the bottle of bio oil, he said,

'Can I do that?' She looked up at him and said,

'You don't want to get it all over your clothes, it will stain.'

He put down the bottle and took off his jacket, draping it over the back of the dressing table chair. He then began to unbutton his shirt, fixing her with piercing stare, removed the shirt and threw it on the chair. He unfastened the waist band and the zip of his trousers and slipped them off, folding them carefully and hanging them over the back of the chair, too, and, finally, removed his socks and dropped them on the floor. Returning to the bed, he put one knee on the mattress and leaned over, placing his hands on her shoulders, pushing her back onto the bed. He then reached out and took up the bio oil bottle, again, and applied it to his hands, before beginning to massage her skin. She watched his face, noting the intense concentration, the slight wrinkle of a frown between his eyebrows, the care and attention to detail. Having massaged her shoulders, breasts and belly, he rolled her over on the towel she had placed on the bed to protect the duvet cover, and massaged her back, buttocks and thighs.

Having completed the task, he screwed the lid back on the bottle, and sat down on the bed, next to her.

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'Please forgive me.'

Molly rolled over, and reached up to pull him into a passionate embrace.

'I'm the one who should be apologising. I shouldn't take my hormones out on you,' she murmured.

'Well, I suppose it is your turn. I've been doing it to you for years,' he smiled, thinking that the best part of an argument was the making up.

ooOoo


	3. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Two**

Sherlock was still working on the Met's not-so-cold cases, from the little office, just off the Black Museum, at New Scotland Yard. There was nothing too taxing but it kept him busy and, most important of all, kept his mind occupied but not quite enough to stop him thinking about Mycroft. People like his brother don't change their habits; they are set in their ways. There had been many occasions when he wished Mycroft would leave him in peace to get on with his life but he had always known where to find him, should he need him. His brother had been away now for two weeks and Sherlock had received no communication from him during that time. Mycroft was the most constant thing in his life. It felt weird not to know where his brother was and he was glad that he was expected back that day. There had to be some underlying reason for this strange decision to take a holiday and he wished he could work out what it was.

Then, there was 'the argument'. Molly had never turned on him before and it had knocked his confidence. He'd always been able to rely on her understanding his eccentricities and his social awkwardness. Had he really upset John and Mary? If he had, it was entirely unintentional. He could pretend to be friendly with Mary, of course. He could switch on his super-charming smile, make small talk, hug and kiss and do all that stuff but it would just be an act. Which would she prefer, the real Sherlock Holmes, who was gauche and socially inept, or the fake Sherlock Holmes who was channelling Sebastian Wilkes or one of those other air heads from university?

All this soul searching was distracting him from his work. Right now, there was the small matter of this case he was looking at. He adjusted his attention and got down to business.

ooOoo

Anthea was seated in the private Arrivals lounge at Heathrow Terminal Five when she saw the door open and Mycroft Holmes enter. Travelling on a diplomatic passport, he did not have to go through Customs or Passport Control, so had entered straight from the plane. For a man who had been on holiday for two weeks, an unprecedented event in his case, she thought he looked tired. She rose from the comfortable chair and he smiled at her, across the room, as he approached.

'Anthea, how kind of you to meet me,' he said. 'I trust you had a restful break?'

'Yes, thank you, sir, I did. And you?' she enquired.

'Not exactly restful but extremely satisfactory,' he replied. 'Shall we go?' She nodded and they walked together, from the lounge, through the airport and out to a waiting car. The chauffeur jumped out to open the passenger door to admit him, as soon as he exited the building. His luggage was already stowed in the boot, having been collected by the driver, minutes before. As the vehicle moved away from the curb and manoeuvred out of the airport and onto the motorway, Mycroft opened the briefcase that had been left in the car for him. He looked through all the papers, briefly, then turned to Anthea and said,

'Well, it all seems to have been fairly quiet while we've been gone, don't you think? Perhaps I should go away more often, if my absence has this effect.' Anthea smiled. She, more than anyone, knew that it was her boss's scrupulous planning and preparation that had guaranteed the smooth running of the department, in his absence, and that any longer than two weeks away could have had catastrophic consequences. There would be a lot of people breathing huge sighs of relief that the master strategist was back at the helm once more.

ooOoo

Back in his office, Mycroft took off his jacket and hung it on the hanger he kept for that purpose, on the back of the door. He sat in his chair at his desk, steepling his fingers, under his chin, reflecting on the last two weeks. He had done something momentous, set in motion something that would have far-reaching consequences. He felt slightly guilty and very apprehensive. All his life, he had put duty first, initially to his family and then to queen and country. No one would ever have questioned his loyalty. Would people be shocked, when the truth came to light, as surely it would? Undoubtedly, they would. Would people feel let down? Yes, probably that, too. Well, it was too late for regrets. What was done, was done. He would just have to take on the chin whatever reprisals were due to him. Did he regret his actions? Not one bit. A light tap on the door broke into his reverie and Anthea came in, with a cup of his favourite tea. He thanked her and she returned his smile, before returning to her own desk, in the anteroom to his office. She was his first line of defence and he was eternally grateful for her loyalty. He hoped she, at least, would understand.

ooOoo

John awoke to the sound of retching. Mary was in the bathroom, giving in to Morning Sickness. Fortunately, in her case, it was just in the mornings and, if she nibbled on a Rich Tea biscuit before getting out of bed, she could usually avoid the daily dawn up-chuck. On this occasion, the Rich Tea biscuit sat, untouched, on the bedside cabinet. John got out of bed and walked to the bathroom door, pulling on his dressing gown as he went. Mary was sitting on the side of the bath, looking pale and drawn.

'Whose idea was this, anyway?' she asked, brushing her hair back off her forehead with a trembling hand. John walked over and put a comforting arm around her shoulders.

'I do believe it was a decision made whilst we were both extremely inebriated,' he recalled. 'It's a bit late to change our minds. We are stuck with the prospect of a permanent drain on our resources. Would you like a glass of water?' She nodded and he set about pouring water into said glass, whilst she shuffled back to the bed. Sitting on the side, she accepted the glass and took a couple of sips before putting it down and taking up the biscuit, which she nibbled.

'I knew I should have eaten the biscuit first but I did so need a pee!' Mary explained. John raised his eyebrows, to acknowledge the explanation.

'Would you like some breakfast?' he asked. She nodded but added,

'I'm going to take a shower first. Just cereal for me, thanks, and a cup of Horlicks. That should keep me going until lunch time,' she smiled, feeling better already.

ooOoo

Sherlock was still having trouble keeping his mind on his work. He had to have a talk with Molly but he'd been putting it off. Although this was her second baby, it was really his first, since William had been handed to him as a two year old, fully-fledged, so to speak. He wanted to experience every aspect of this pregnancy, everything that he had missed out on before, but, after the argument the other Sunday, he was a bit wary of broaching any subject with her. She seemed resentful, even when he asked her how she was. He had a nagging feeling that she was suspicious of his motives, like she believed, for him, this was just another experiment. Well, there was that aspect to it, he could not deny but, far more than that, this was a life-changing experience. They were bringing a new life into the world and they were doing it knowingly. That was not a decision he had taken lightly. He resolved to speak to Molly that very evening and get a few ground rules sorted out. After all, the foetus might be inside her body, but it was his baby, too.

He was just about to wrap up for the night when his text alert trilled. He took out his phone and saw the text was from Molly. It simply said:

'Please come home.'

Wondering what could be so urgent, he finished replacing, into the filing cabinet, all the files he had been looking at, locked the drawers and hid the key in its new hiding place. It didn't do to use the same place for ever. Leaving the building, he hailed a cab. Twenty minutes later, he was deposited outside the flat that he now shared with Molly and William. On entering the flat, he was confronted by a flurry of activity. There was a suitcase parked in the hallway and Molly was talking on the phone whilst, at the same time, checking the contents of her handbag for purse, keys and other personal items. William, who would normally be immersed in his early evening TV viewing, was sitting on the sofa, looking slightly alarmed. Marie was hovering, clearly anxious to be gone, as it was well past her usual leaving time. Since Molly was clearly occupied, Sherlock looked to Marie for an explanation of all the upheaval.

'Molly's mother has had an accident. Molly needs to go to Northampton, to see her. She's just checking the train times before calling a cab.' Sherlock thanked Marie for the information and told her she should go, expressing his gratitude to her for staying past her contracted time, and she left. Sherlock picked William up, as he looked so concerned, and stood, holding him, waiting for Molly to finish on the phone. She eventually hung up and turned to him.

'I'm sorry to have to call you home early but I have to go to my mother. She was hit by a car on a zebra crossing. My sister called. She sounds really upset. I don't know how bad the injuries are but they've taken my mum to hospital.'

Sherlock put a comforting arm around Molly and said,

'No, of course, you must go. We'll be fine. Just, please, text to let me know you arrived OK and let us know how things are with your mum. And try not to worry. It's not good for you to worry, OK?' The doorbell buzzed, announcing the arrival of the taxi. Molly gave William a hug and a kiss, gave Sherlock a peck on the cheek and left the flat. Sherlock carried the case out to the waiting cab, with William still held in the crook of his other arm. They saw Molly into the taxi and waved as it drove round the crescent and out of sight. Sherlock looked into William's perturbed face and smiled.

'Just you and me, then, old boy. Shall we make supper?' William nodded, still not happy about the sudden disappearance of Mummy, in the taxi, but glad that at least Daddy was still here and not planning to disappear as well. As Sherlock walked back into the flat, he recalled his resolution to talk to Molly about his involvement in the pregnancy. Well, not much chance of that, now. Molly and baby were speeding away, one hundred and fifty miles north to Northampton, for goodness knew how long. Life could be very unpredictable, at times, he thought, then turned his attention to the child who was still here and totally dependent upon him.

ooOoo

Not long after Molly's departure, and whilst Sherlock was in the middle of cooking the meal that Marie had begun to prepare, before the proverbial excrement hit the extractor, the doorbell buzzed again and, on investigating, Sherlock saw his brother in the screen of the entry phone. He buzzed Mycroft in and opened the flat door to admit him. The brothers exchanged a brief greeting before William hurled himself at his favourite uncle.

'Nanny's poorly and Mummy's gone to make her better,' William announced to Mycroft, cutting straight to the chase in his succinct account of the situation. Sherlock filled in the details then Mycroft and William took up their positions on the sofa, to watch TV, while Sherlock finished making supper.

It wasn't until a couple of hours later, after William had been bathed and put to bed by 'Uncle Mytoft' that the two brothers were able to have a meaningful conversation. However, with the dish washer providing the back ground sound track, Sherlock and Mycroft sat down, in the sitting room, with a glass of wine each.

'Domesticity seems to suit you, Sherlock,' Mycroft commented. The domestic god raised an eyebrow.

'Necessity was ever the mother of invention, brother,' he replied. 'How was your holiday?'

'It was….interesting,' said Mycroft, cryptically.

'Where abouts did you go?'

'Oh, here and there, you know.'

'Mycroft, what is going on?' Sherlock demanded, annoyed by his brother's evasive answers and frivolous attitude.

'Why should anything be going on?' countered Mycroft.

'You did not just decide to take a holiday. You went to America for a purpose. I'd like you to tell me what that purpose was.'

'I'm sorry, Sherlock. You always want to make a mystery out of everything. There is no mystery here.' Sherlock hissed through his teeth. It was obvious that his brother was not going to explain the truth behind his strange behaviour. He was, however, undeterred. He would find out, one way or another. The rest of the conversation was quite banal and, after half an hour, Mycroft excused himself, commenting that he was feeling quite jet-lagged and would be sleeping at his London flat that night. The two men wished one another good night and Mycroft left.

Sherlock sat on the sofa, deep in thought. He had a lot on his mind. Mycroft, of course, but also, Molly had not been in touch – no text, nor phone call - even though she should have arrived in Northampton some time ago. Perhaps things were hectic. He was tempted to ring her but thought she might resent it. Why did he think that? He had no reason other than Molly's recent attitude toward him. Was he making more of this than he should? Was he being a little paranoid? When had his life become this complicated? So many questions and so few answers.

ooOoo


	4. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Three**

'I'm sorry to ring so late. Did I wake you?' It was Molly. Sherlock squinted at the phone in his hand. The screen seemed very bright in the darkened room and his eyes were blurry from sleep but he could just make out that it was ten past two in the morning.

'Yes, but it's OK. How is your mother?' Sherlock replied, rolling over onto his back, holding the phone to his ear and shading his eyes with his free hand.

'They've admitted her, for observation. She's had x-rays and a CT scan. Cracked pelvis, lots of bruising, inside and out but they don't think there is any permanent damage. Internal organs seem OK. Some boy racer hit her on a zebra crossing but not head on, fortunately, just a glancing blow. She tried to jump out of the way but didn't quite make it.' He thought she sounded tired and a bit emotional.

'But are you OK?' he asked.

'Yes, I'm fine, just a bit tired. My sister and I are on our way home now. I don't know how long I'm going to need to stay, though. We'll be speaking to the consultant tomorrow. A lot will depend on the prognosis.'

'OK, well, just take it easy, alright? Try not to get upset. And keep me in the loop, yes?' he murmured, still drowsy.

'I will. Tell William that Nanny is going to be OK and that I love him. Love you, too,' she replied.

'Yes, love you too. Molly…?' Too late, she had already rung off. Sherlock lay staring at the ceiling for some time. The bed felt strange. He'd never slept in this bed on his own. When Molly had been in hospital, after being kidnapped, he had stayed in the guest room. That was before they became 'friends with privileges' and a long time before they became 'an item', as John might say. He was shocked at how much he missed her presence, not just as something warm to snuggle up to but as his social barometer, his interpersonal interpreter, his guide and advisor. She and John had helped him find his human side – a side he had decided, long ago, did not exist. Being human had its advantages but also its pitfalls. Right now, he wasn't sure which hand held the trump card. Before he became human, he'd never felt lonely. Now he did.

ooOoo

The taxi pulled up outside Molly's family home and she and her sister got out. Molly paid the cab driver. Once inside the house, Molly left her case in the hall way and she and her sibling went through to the kitchen, to make a drink. They both felt emotionally and physically exhausted but did not think they were ready for sleep. Karen put on the kettle.

'No tea for me, thanks,' said Molly. Karen raised her eyebrows. She knew that Molly was as big a tea addict as she was.

'Is there something you haven't told us?' Karen asked.

'Well, as a matter of fact, there is,' Molly admitted. 'I was planning to wait until after my twelve week scan but, since I'm here, I might as well spill the beans.'

'Oh, my God!' Karen exclaimed. 'And was this one planned?'

'As it happens, yes, very planned. Why do you ask?' Molly enquired. There was something about her sister's expression that touched a raw nerve.

'Well, you're still not married. You know what Mum is going to say,' Karen warned.

'To quote the famous comedy character, am I bothered? Sherlock and I are together. We've made out own commitment. We don't need a certificate to tell us what we both feel in our hearts,' Molly retorted.

'Don't you want to get married?' her sister asked. 'You always used to. You told me once that was your greatest ambition – to meet Mr Right, get married and have a family.'

'Well, two out of three isn't bad, is it?' Molly replied.

'So you would like to get married, then.'

'Look, Karen, we've never even discussed marriage. It's just never come up. You don't know Sherlock. He's not like your average person. He doesn't think like normal people. I just don't see him, standing up in a church or anywhere else and making a public declaration of love. It's just not him.'

'But what about you? What do you want? And what if something were to happen to him? Has he made a will? Has he made provision for you and William, not to mention this new one on the way?'

'Karen, I really do not want to have this conversation with you. Forgive me, but it is none of your business. My relationship with Sherlock is our business and no one else's,' Molly declared, rather flustered by her sister's persistence.

'Well, Molly, if you are going to bring more children into the world, it's not just your business, is it. It's theirs, too.'

Molly stared, open-mouthed, at her sister. How dare she say these things? It was like listening to her mother. Molly stood up, walked over to the kitchen sink and filled a mug with water, then turned to leave the room.

'I'm going to bed. I'll see you in the morning,' she said, coldly.

It was bad enough when her mother criticised her life choices but, when her little sister started, she did not have to stick around. She dragged her suitcase up the stairs to her old bedroom, still looking pretty much as it had when she used to sleep here, as a student, home from university. The single bed, the general décor, the carpet and the curtains had not changed at all. She knelt on the floor and pulled the under-bed drawer open, to take out the duvet and pillows, which she dumped on the bed. She then opened the bottom drawer of the chest of drawers and took out the bed linen – her teenage bed linen, decorated with Pierrot characters. This had been her taste at about the same time that she had professed her deep desire to be a bride. She was not that person any more. As she made up the bed, she reflected on why she had decided to live in London, after she left university, and not return to her home town. It was to escape the critical attitudes of her family. It was why she came home so rarely and why she barely kept any contact with her mother and sister at all. She wondered how long she could stand to stay here and, as she climbed wearily into the bed, she longed to curl up in Sherlock's comforting arms and feel his warm touch on her skin. She loved her life with Sherlock and William. She could not imagine ever being happier. The only thing that could improve it was the safe arrival of this new baby, the one they had chosen to make, together. She tried to dismiss her sister's comments but they nagged at her, none the less.

ooOoo

After a very disturbed night of strange dreams, Sherlock was up very early, making tea in the kitchen. He would get William up and ready, take him to school and explain that Molly would be away for a while and to contact him if any emergency arose. He would then be free to go the work at New Scotland Yard or Baker Street, as Marie would be collecting William from school, as usual. So long as Sherlock was back at the flat by five thirty, William's day would not be disrupted.

He decided to work from Baker Street, today. He needed internet access and, for what he wanted, he could not use the access in the office he used at the Black Museum. The case he was looking at was of a woman who disappeared the day before her wedding. The groom-to–be had been a suspect, initially, as the woman's family insisted that he had 'done away with' her. Sherlock had read all the case notes and was convinced that the she was a run-away. He assumed that she got cold feet and decided to 'disappear'. He thought he could probably find her, through one or other of the social network sites. He just needed to reroute his Wi-fi through a government network, so that he could make use of Facial Recognition software. It would have been too obvious to use the Met's network. It would be too easily traceable back to him. This way, he could route half way round the world, to cover his tracks. He had a photograph of the young woman, which he just needed to scan, using the Met's system, and email the image to himself. This took less than half an hour, and then he was on his way to Baker Street.

As he let himself in to 221, Mrs Hudson came out into the hallway.

'Hello, dear, haven't seen you in a while. How is everything? Family OK?' she asked, solicitously. Sherlock explained about Molly having to go away at short notice.

'Well, if you need a baby-sitter for William, you know where I am, don't you?' she volunteered.

'Yes, thank you, Mrs Hudson. I know I can always rely on you. Don't know where we'd be without you,' he replied. Mrs H gave him a hug and continued out of the door, as she was on her way to meet a friend for coffee.

'I've put some fresh milk in your fridge, in case you need it,' she called over her shoulder, as she left the building.

Sherlock mounted the stairs, two at a time, and pushed open the door to 221b, his home from home. He put on the kettle, and thought about ringing Molly but, again, something stopped him. It was nearly ten o'clock, so he assumed she would be awake, even after her late call the night before. If she wanted to speak to him, surely she would ring. He decided to wait for her to take the initiative. Having made a mug of coffee, he sat down at the table, opened his lap top and began clicking the keys, setting in motion the chain of events he hoped would result in finding the 'Runaway Bride'.

ooOoo

Molly awoke in her old bed and stared at the wall. She had to think for a moment, to remember where she was and why. Recalling last night's uncomfortable conversation, she groaned inwardly and went to sit up. A wave of nausea crashed over her.

'Oh, no,' she thought, 'this is the last thing I need.' She lay still for a while, then, very gingerly, tried rolling over. No good, at all. The nausea was not to be outwitted that easily. She reached for the mug of water she had put by her bed the night before and took a cautious sip. The coolness of the water seemed to help a little so she tried pushing up on one elbow. Immediately, the saliva started to pool in her mouth and she realised the inevitability of the fact. Pushing herself from the bed, she stumbled across the landing and into the bathroom, just making it in time, falling to her knees in front of the toilet, before she began to retch, violently. Her stomach was all but empty, having not had any supper the night before, so it was largely dry retching, but extremely unpleasant, never the less. Resting her forehead on her forearm, she closed her eyes and hoped that the bout of nausea was over. She heard a noise behind her and knew, without looking, that her sister was watching her from the bathroom doorway.

'Would you mind getting me a glass of water, please?' she asked. Her sister gave a huffing noise and stomped off down the stairs. She waited and then heard her sister returning. Karen reached over and placed the glass of water on the corner of the bath.

'Don't suppose you'll be wanting any breakfast, then,' she commented.

'Actually, a piece of dry toast would be good, if you wouldn't mind,' Molly replied, pushing her hair off her face and taking a sip of water. Her sister stomped off again and she stood up, carefully, and shuffled back into the bedroom. She slipped on her dressing gown and walked, very slowly, down the stairs, wishing, more than anything, that she was in her own home, where Sherlock would be more than happy to lavish attention on her. The timing of the onset of her pregnancy sickness could not have been less convenient.

ooOoo

The speed with which the Fax Rex software had found a match to the woman's photo surprised even Sherlock. He looked at the photo of the woman, 'tagged' in the timeline of a third party. The date of the photo was just three days previously, so definitely post-disappearance. It was obviously her and she was very much alive and well and, according to the caption on the photograph, enjoying 'sun, sand, sea and sex' in Ibiza. Sherlock took a screen shot of the image and saved it as a download. He could print it off later and hand it over to the original investigating team. His involvement in the case would then be concluded. It would be up to them to track her down, if they chose to do so, or to inform her family that she was not dead but on holiday and let them find a way to contact her, themselves. Case closed.

ooOoo


	5. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Four**

When Molly and her sister arrived at the Northampton General Hospital, they were directed to Benham Ward, where they found Mrs Hooper reclining in her bed, looking pale and fragile. Molly had warned her sister on the way in to the hospital that she was not to mention the pregnancy. She would tell her mother in her own way, in her own time. Karen knew better than to challenge her sister on this. Molly was, after all, the only person who could help her take care of their mother and she did not want to risk Molly abandoning her and going straight back to London, so she held her tongue.

Mrs Hooper assured her daughters that she was not in any pain, due to the strong painkillers she had been prescribed, so long as she kept relatively still but that she could not close her eyes without reliving the experience of seeing the car bear down upon her, so she had not slept very well. Molly asked if the doctor had been round yet and was answered by the arrival of the consultant and her entourage. The lady came straight to Mrs Hooper's bed, and smiled at the patient.

'Well, Mrs Hooper, I think you've been remarkably lucky, under the circumstances. Your injuries are not serious and I am confident you will make a full recovery. How are you feeling?' Molly's mother explained that she was not too uncomfortable so long as she didn't move around too much.

'Unfortunately, Mrs Hooper, we need to get you up and moving around as soon as possible. If you don't, your joints and muscles will stiffen up and it will take you longer to recover. I'll arrange for an occupational therapist to come and see later today. If you need more pain relief, we can provide that.' She asked if there were any questions and both mother and sister looked to Molly, as the medical expert, to come up with something.

'When will my mother be able to be discharged?' she asked.

'As soon as she is up and about, we will be happy to send her home. Your own GP will be able to supervise her recovery. She may need physiotherapy, at some stage, but we'll wait and see.' With that, the doctor was gone, moving on to her next patient.

'Well, it's alright for her to talk, get me up and about. I can't even move without it hurting,' Mrs Hooper commented.

'You need to ask for more pain relief then, Mum,' Molly replied. 'It's right what she says. If you lie around in bed, you'll just stiffen up. Use it or lose it, you know.'

'Might have known you'd be on her side, Molly,' her mother retorted. 'You medical types always stick together.' Molly stared at her mother, then stood up and said,

'I need to make a phone call. Do either of you need anything, while I'm at it?' Karen asked for a cold drink and a packet of crisps, her mother for a cup of tea and a biscuit.

ooOoo

Molly walked through the hospital and out of the front entrance. Finding a bench, she sat down, took out her mobile and speed dialled Sherlock's number. It rang only twice before he answered. Just hearing him say 'hello' almost reduced Molly to tears. He heard it in her broken breathing.

'Molly, what's wrong?' he asked, immediately concerned.

'Oh, nothing, really, I just miss you and William so much,' she explained. 'I hope I don't have to stay here too long.' He asked how her mother was and she repeated what the doctor had said.

'Sounds like sensible advice to me,' Sherlock commented.

'Yes, me too, but, when I said that, my mother accused me of siding with the doctor,' Molly related. Sherlock felt his usual annoyance and frustration with Molly's family. They seemed to go out of their way to make her feel uncomfortable.

'If they don't want your advice, why did they send for you?' he commented, curtly.

'Yes, well, I wonder why I came, to be honest, just to be abused by my sister.'

'What do you mean?' he asked.

'I don't think she approves of our lifestyle,' Molly explained. 'I told her about the new baby and she just started to give me a hard time about not being married.' The moment she said the words, she regretted it. She heard Sherlock's sharp intake of breath.

'I'm sorry, Sherlock, I shouldn't have said that,' she stammered.

'No, Molly, not you. _She_ shouldn't have said it. The way we live our lives is absolutely none of your sister's business. How dare she force her reactionary opinions on you?' Molly could hear in his voice that he was absolutely furious.

'Please don't get upset, Sherlock,' Molly tried to calm him.

'Why don't you just come home, right now?' he asked.

'You know why. Despite everything, she's still my mother. She needs me,' Molly explained.

'She should appreciate you more and not use you as a punch bag,' Sherlock spat. Molly decided she had better change the subject.

Did you sleep well?' she asked.

'Very badly. I missed you. The bed was too big, I couldn't get warm and I had bad dreams,' he related, feeling the distance between them like a gapping chasm. 'How about you?'

'Hardly slept at all. I'd forgotten how uncomfortable my old bed was. And how small! I nearly fell out! Still, hopefully, I won't have to stay for too long. Is William OK?'

'Missing you, obviously, but as long as I keep his routine going, I think he'll be fine.'

Molly's heart melted.

'I'm sorry I had to leave you both,' she whispered.

'No, I'm just being selfish. I understand, you had to go,' he apologised. 'But, please, Molly, don't let your family put you down. You don't deserve that. You really don't.'

'I'd better go,' she said, beginning to feel tearful again, knowing that it had a lot to do with her hormones and not just the fact that she felt so far from home. 'I said I would get them snacks so I had better get back.'

'You take care of yourself, too, Molly. I want you back, safe and sound. Both of you,' he murmured. 'I love you so much.'

'I love you too,' Molly breathed and had to shut off the call immediately, as she felt the sobs begin to rise in her chest. She couldn't let him hear her crying. He would likely be on the next train and she wanted to keep as much distance between him and her family as possible, at the moment. She did not want to have to be the referee.

Sherlock shut off his phone, too, and sat back on the sofa in the sitting room of 221b. He had his problems with Mycroft, he knew, but his brother only occasionally went out of his way to belittle him (he could think of a couple of fairly recent examples) but her family seemed to treat Molly-bashing as a national sport. He though it was a control thing. They could not bear the fact that she had a life that was entirely independent of them. And. perhaps, there was some envy, too. She had a good life – or, rather, he hoped she thought she had a good life. He certainly did. He wouldn't want anything to spoil what he had found, so unexpectedly, with Molly Hooper.

A sudden thought caused him to move to the table and open his lap top. He typed a short phrase into Google, then scanned the drop down menu, clicking on the most promising option. After speed reading the information displayed, he copied the link, opened his email account and sent the link to Molly's email address. He then tapped a new reference into Google and repeated the whole process again. Having done that, he took out his phone and sent Molly a text.

'Check your emails. S x.' He closed his lap top with a satisfied snap.

ooOoo

When Molly arrived back on the ward, her mother was sitting in the bedside armchair, talking to a lady in a green uniform, whom Molly assumed to be the Occupational Therapist. Molly placed the cup of tea and pack of biscuits on the trolley table, for her mother, and gave the can and crisps to Karen.

'You took your time,' her mother commented.

'You're most welcome, Mum,' Molly replied, a lot more breezily than she actually felt. The smell of the tea was making her feel nauseous. She didn't want her mother to notice so she excused herself and went to the bathroom. Sitting on the toilet lid, taking long slow breaths to try to reduce her light-headedness, she heard her text alert and took out her phone to read the message from Sherlock. Out of curiosity, she opened her emails and read the two he had sent, smiling to herself. Yes, she thought, that was an option.

ooOoo

Wednesday was therapy day, so Sherlock took William to school and then returned to the flat. Dr Matthews arrived on time, at ten o'clock. Having made a pot of tea, Sherlock and the doctor sat sown to talk.

'How are things with you, Sherlock? Any sleep problems?' the doctor opened proceedings.

'Yes, but not related to my memories,' Sherlock replied and went on to explain about Molly's unscheduled absence. It felt very strange to be talking to Eve about his relationship with Molly. He wasn't entirely comfortable with the idea. His private life was, by definition, private. Eve understood his reluctance to confide so deftly changed the subject.

'I don't think we need to continue meeting every week, now. You seem to be reconciled with what happened and have clearly moved on with your life. I suggest we change to monthly sessions.' Sherlock could not agree more.

'Well, Mycroft will be pleased that you think I'm coping OK,' he commented.

'Yes, your brother does worry about you a great deal more than he lets on. You're all he has, so I suppose it's to be expected,' Eve replied. They chatted generally for a few more minutes and then Eve stood to leave.

'Please give my regards to Molly,' she smiled. 'Oh, and can I wish you good luck with the new baby? I don't envy you the night feeds. You really will have sleep deprivation then.'

'Well, as Molly keeps reminding me, it's early days and lots could go wrong. We're just taking one day at a time,' Sherlock voiced Molly's superstitious caution. He was not remotely superstitious himself but he respected Molly's sensibilities. As he saw Eve to the door, he hoped Molly was keeping her cool around her family and that she would be coming home soon.

ooOoo

The taxi drew up outside Molly's family home and Molly was the first to get out. She opened the rear passenger door and offered her hand to her mother.

'I can get myself out, thank you,' she snapped, so Molly stood back to allow her mother to climb, gingerly, out of the minicab. Karen came round from the other side of the vehicle and went up the path to open the front door. Mrs Hooper, with a walking stick in each hand, began to make her way towards the house, leaving Molly to pay the taxi driver. Once inside the house, Mrs Hooper lowered herself into a chair in the sitting room and looked around, critically, for anything out of place. She was very house proud.

'Let's have a cup of proper tea, shall we?' Karen suggested and looked meaningfully at Molly, who took the hint and walked through to the kitchen to put on the kettle. She believed her sister had done this on purpose – probably to force her hand – so that she would have to tell her mother about the pregnancy. Well, it was probably as good a time as any since, if she was to stay around for a while to help care for her mother until she was properly back on her feet, she would not be able to hide the fact much longer. The sickness was becoming more obvious by the day. Morning was the worst but anything could set it off now, particularly food smells and especially the aroma of tea, coffee or anything fried. Molly dropped two tea bags into the teapot and poured the boiling water over them, turning her head away to try not to inhale the fumes. She clamped the teapot lid on, as quickly as possible, put two mugs, a jug of milk and the sugar bowl on the tray with the teapot and carried the whole thing into the sitting room. Molly's mother looked at the two mugs and said,

'Who's not having one, then?'

'Me,' said Molly and returned to the kitchen to get herself a glass of water, which she carried back into the sitting room, where she sat down and took a deep breath. Her mother was staring at her with a suspicious expression on her face.

'What's going on?' Mrs Hooper demanded.

Before Molly could reply, her sister jumped straight in.

'She's up the duff again,' Karen crowed. Molly rolled her eyes to heaven, whilst her mother stared at Karen, took in the news and then turned her head back, to glare at her first born.

'Not again, Molly? What on earth is the matter with you?' her mother sighed, looking exasperated.

'Karen, did I not specifically ask you to let me break the news myself, in my own way and in my own time?' Molly asked her sister.

'Well, what difference does it make who told me? The end result is still the same. Not only is my eldest daughter living in sin with some posh bloke down in London, she's about to bring another little bastard into the world!' her mother ranted.

Molly looked from her mother to her sister and back again, then stood up.

'You know, Mum, I probably should make allowances for the fact that you are in pain and have had a traumatic experience but, do you know what, I don't think it makes any difference what so ever. I dropped everything to come here because you were hit by a car. Karen, you rang me at work, in floods of tears, begging me to come, so I did.' She paused, staring at her relatives, momentarily lost for words. Then she made a decision.

'I have a good life in London. I have a great job that I'm really good at, I have a wonderful man, whom I love and who loves me. I have one beautiful, healthy child and, hopefully, another equally beautiful, healthy child on the way. And you ask what is the matter with me? There is absolutely nothing the matter with me, except for one thing. I really don't know what I'm doing here.' She paused again, then took out her mobile phone.

'I have details here of a private nursing home, very near here, which can provide twenty-four hour, seven days a week residential care for you, Mother, until you are well enough to look after yourself again. Or, if you prefer, there is an agency that will provide the same level of care but in your own home. I am more than happy to pay for either, for as long as you need it. You chose.' She looked at her mother and waited for an answer. Mrs Hooper opened and closed her mouth a few times but no words came out. Molly looked at her watch.

'Hurry up and decide, Mum, because there is a train back to London in just over an hour and I intend to be on it. I'll go and pack, whilst you two discuss it amongst yourselves.' She picked up her glass of water and left the room. She went up to her bedroom, opened her suitcase on the bed and began to pack her belongings back into it, collecting her toiletries from the bathroom and her dressing gown and night dress from the hook on the back of the bathroom door. Having packed everything away, she stripped the bed and threw the bed linen into the laundry bin, on the landing, then carried her suitcase down the stairs and left it in the hall way. She then took out her phone again and rang the minicab firm that had just dropped them off, booking a cab to pick her up in fifteen minutes. She went back into the sitting room. Her mother and sister turned accusing eyes upon her.

'Is that it, then, Miss Moneybags? You're just going to bugger off back to Loverboy and leave your sister to cope with everything?' her mother hissed.

'You clearly were not listening, Mum. I will pay for all your care. You just have to choose which option you prefer and then I will be straight on the phone and arrange it all. But, please hurry up and make up your mind. I have a taxi coming in about ten minutes,' Molly concluded.

'You can keep your money. We don't want your charity. We'll manage just fine on our own, won't we, Karen?' her mother declared.

'Hang on a minute, Mum….I mean, I need to get back to work and who knows how long it will be before you are back to normal….' Karen stammered.

'Look, you have my phone number. If you change your mind, the offer still stands,' said Molly, just as the doorbell rang. She glanced out of the front window and saw the minicab parked outside.

'Well, that's my taxi.' She bent down and kissed her mother on the cheek then walked over and did the same to her sister. She then walked to the door, into the hall, but stopped and turned back.

'And, Mother, don't you ever call any child of mine a bastard again. Goodbye.' She opened the front door and gave her case to the driver, picked up her handbag and followed him to the car. As the cab moved off down the road, she took out her phone and texted Sherlock.

'Catching the next train home. See you in a couple of hours. M x.'

ooOoo


	6. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Five**

The train to Euston was quite crowded, so Molly decided to up-grade to First Class. Not so long ago, she would not have dreamed of travelling First Class but Sherlock never travelled anything less, and she felt she deserved a bit of pampering, after her two days with the family. The steward asked if he could get her anything and she asked for a glass of soda water, and relaxed into the plush comfort of the seat. About half an hour into the journey, her sister rang, rather tearful and apologetic. Molly ignored her protestations that she had never intended to be critical and just established that her mother would prefer the home care option. She got straight onto the agency and made the necessary arrangements, asking for the invoices to be sent to her London address.

Fifteen minutes out from Euston, her text alert pinged and she saw it was from Sherlock.

'Meeting you at the station. S & W xx' it read. She smiled to herself. Yes, she loved her life in London.

When the train drew to a halt, being in First Class, she had the shortest distance to walk to the main concourse. As she alighted from the train and her suitcase was handed down to her by the steward, she saw Sherlock striding along the platform, carrying William in the crook of his arm. As they drew near, he put the little boy down and he hurtled towards his mother, arms outstretched in preparation for the big hug that he could not wait to deliver. Molly knelt down and hugged him to her chest. Then Sherlock was standing next to her, smiling down and waiting for her to rise so that he could pull her into a warm embrace, with William sandwiched between them, like a baby penguin, sitting on its mother's feet. Breaking apart, Sherlock picked up the suitcase and, holding one of William's hands each, they walked back up the platform, across the busy concourse and down to the underground taxi rank, to take a cab home.

Molly had decided not to mention the use of the 'b' word, in reference to their progeny. She could not imagine exactly how Sherlock would take that news but she knew it would be 'not good'. Some things were better left unsaid.

They didn't have any opportunity to talk until after William was in bed but then they sat together, on the sofa, and Sherlock told her about Eve Matthews' decision to reduce the frequency of their sessions and, also, about Mycroft's visit and his refusal to explain where he had been in America.

'You know, you hate it when he gets too involved in your life, Sherlock. I think you're just going to have to accept that this is something he doesn't want to share with you,' Molly concluded. Sherlock huffed but had to admit that Molly was correct in her analysis. When they went to bed that night, they had two whole nights of missing one another to make up for, after which, they both slept very soundly, in deed.

ooOoo

Mary and John sat in the waiting room of the Radiology Department at St Thomas' Hospital, holding hands and almost quivering with anticipation. They were here for Mary's twelve week scan. Mary had come straight from court, so she was wearing her black, court room attire, with a smart white blouse underneath. John had come straight from St Mary's, so he was wearing his usual jeans and woolly jumper, with a check shirt underneath. They must have looked quite an odd couple, to the casual observer, a bit like Lady Chatterley and Mellors, the gamekeeper. John found the analogy quite amusing and smiled to himself. Mary wondered what he was smiling at but didn't ask, since she knew he would tell her later, when they were alone.

A nurse stood in the doorway to the consulting room and called,

'Dr and Mrs Watson?' John and Mary stood and walked toward her, no doubt putting to rest any speculation as to the relative status of the 'odd couple', amongst the other pairs and individual patients, waiting.

After the usual preliminaries, Mary was invited to remove her skirt and lie on the examination table. The radiographer explained the procedure of an ultrasound scan, whilst draping a green surgical sheet across Mary's lap, then applying KY jelly to her abdomen, which was slightly enlarged but would not have been noticeable to anyone who didn't know her. As the nurse ran the ultrasound scanner over her belly, she pointed out to both Mary and John the salient features on the screen, which she turned, so that they both had a good view. The image was largely self-explanatory but they both appreciated the commentary. Despite John's medical back-ground, he was still completely blown away by the sight of his own child, in utero, visible to the naked eye, in black and white, on the computer monitor. He squeezed Mary's hand and felt a large lump rise in his throat, which he quickly swallowed down, as he could see from the sparkle in Mary's eyes that she was feeling exactly the same.

The radiographer pronounced that the baby was presenting exactly as it should, at this stage of the pregnancy. Then came the Big Question – did they want to be told the baby's gender? They had agreed in advance that they would prefer a surprise, so they both, in unison, said a resounding 'no'. That pretty much concluded the examination. As Mary wiped the lubricant from her skin and put her skirt back on, the radiographer printed out the image of Baby Watson and handed it to the proud dad, congratulated them on the good news that everything was normal and wished them a good day. They left the hospital, hand in hand, with a rosy glow of happiness surrounding them, like an aura. Mary needed to get back to the court room, John was done for the day, but they were both invited over to Molly and Sherlock's for a meal, that evening, so, as they parted, they finalised that John would buy the wine and Mary would buy flowers for Molly and they would meet back at home, later.

ooOoo

On arrival at Molly's flat – they still thought of it as Molly's flat, even though Sherlock was now living here, pretty much full time – they were received by Sherlock, the chef for the evening.

'Molly's just resting. She'll join us later but she's not feeling too well. Twenty-four seven NVP,' Sherlock explained. Mary asked if she go in to see her and Sherlock said he was sure Molly would be fine with that, so she went through to the bedroom corridor, leaving John and Sherlock alone, William having been put to bed, already.

'Get you, Gordon Ramsay,' John quipped, plonking the bottle of wine and the bouquet of flowers on the counter, in the kitchen.

'I can cook, you know, John. I don't know why it comes as such a surprise to you. How do you think I survived all those years before I met you? I didn't starve, did I? Well, except from choice, of course,' Sherlock retorted.

'No, but you managed to trick me into believing you didn't know one end of a wooden spoon from the other,' John admitted.

'Well, why keep a dog and bark one's self, hey?' Sherlock replied, with a wicked grin. He handed the cork screw and decanter to John, to give him something to do, whilst he poured water into a vase and stuck the flowers into it, without ceremony. Molly could deal with those later. Floristry was definitely not his area.

ooOoo

Mary approached the door to the master bedroom and tapped lightly, to alert Molly to her presence, before pushing it open and entering, quietly. Molly was lying on top of the duvet, on her back, with her arm across her eyes. She turned her head towards Mary and gave a weak smile.

'Oh, hi, Mary. Sorry, I can't get up at the moment. If I lift my head up, I just have to puke,' she apologised.

'Oh, Molly, you should have cancelled. We would have understood!' Mary replied.

'What, and miss out on hearing all about your scan? Come on, where is it? Where's the photo?' Molly insisted. Mary opened her bag and took out the printed image, handing it to Molly.

'Oh, my goodness, just look at him – or her. Do you know the sex?' she asked.

'No, we decided not to know. We'd rather wait and see, the old fashioned way. What about you? What have you decided?'

'I didn't want to know with William. I haven't asked Sherlock, yet. I really don't know how he feels. He's not easy to second guess. It's one of the many interesting things about him. Just when you think you know him, you find out you don't. I'll ask him nearer the time,' Molly concluded.

'Are things alright between the two of you,' Mary asked. Molly was taken aback.

'Yes, of course! Why do you ask such a thing?'

'Oh, Molly, please, I'm so sorry. I really didn't mean to presume. Please, forget I said anything,' Mary stumbled over her words. Molly was alarmed, now. She went to sit up but was immediately overcome by a wave of nausea that knocked her back onto the pillow. She reached out for the glass by the bed and Mary held it for her, whilst she sipped the water through a straw. After a moment or two, she pushed the glass away and Mary put it back on the bedside cabinet.

'Has John said something?' Molly asked.

'No, Molly, not a word. Please, I'm so sorry, it's just me being stupid,' she apologised again.

'Stupid in what way?' asked Molly. Mary sat down on the edge of the bed and took a deep breath.

'Last time we were all together, at the pub for lunch, you seemed a bit upset. You kept looking at him, like you were annoyed with him and he didn't react at all to any of your looks, so, I'm afraid, I just put two and two together and obviously made six. I'm really sorry, Molly. It's just that I've never known you to express a single negative thought about Sherlock, so it kind of stood out. And seeing how he didn't react, I assumed he was ignoring you so I suppose I just got the wrong idea. Oh, God. I've really put my foot in it, haven't I?' Mary put her hand to her forehead and looked like she was about to burst into tears. Molly reached out and patted her arm.

'Oh, Mary, don't get upset. I know what you're talking about now. That day, I was annoyed with him but only because of how he is with you.'

'With me? What do you mean?'

'Well, he doesn't talk to you. He doesn't try to get to know you. If you speak to him, he answers but he never initiates any conversation with you. I just thought he was being a bit rude. And, to be honest, I think the only reason it bothered me is because I'm so hormonal. I mean, it's never bothered me that much before. I'm guessing that John has explained to you what he's like.'

'Well, actually, John is amazed at how tolerant he is towards me! He told me that Sherlock drove most of his other girlfriends away by being so downright offensive towards them. I thought I was doing OK, by comparison,' Mary laughed.

'Well, you are, actually, right there. I think, before, when he and John were living together – I mean, flat-sharing – people look at me a bit funny when I say they 'lived together', as though it was more than just two blokes living in the same flat. People like to jump to conclusions, don't they? And, believe me, plenty of people found it hard to believe when Sherlock and I became more than just friends. But, hey, I've wandered off the point. When they flat-shared, Sherlock saw John's girlfriends as a distraction. He wanted him right there, whenever he needed him. He couldn't understand why John needed a social life because he doesn't have one. He doesn't need one. With him, it's just the work. It's all the entertainment he needs.'

'But what about you, Molly? Don't you need a social life?

'Do you know what, I don't think I do! I've never been much of a party animal. I used to do all the unsociable hours at the hospital, before I had William. Though, to be honest, I used to do it a lot of the time because I hoped he would come in.' Molly lay back on the pillow, remembering the days before 'The Fall', when she had such a hopeless crush on Sherlock that she could barely utter a cohesive sentence in his presence.

'God, I used to spend days, looking at the door, every time I heard it open, hoping it would be him. I used to plan and prepare what I would say to him, some witty little riposte that would impress him so much, he would see past the gibbering idiot and suddenly notice the clever pathologist, who'd been there all along, hidden in plain sight.' Molly laughed. 'But the minute I saw him, my brain would turn to mush and my tongue would suddenly be two sizes too big for my mouth. Oh my good night! No wonder he kept me at arm's length. He must have thought I was a total meat head!'

Mary had often thought about what an unlikely match Molly and Sherlock were and yet how well they complimented one another. It was very enlightening, hearing about their early relationship from Molly herself. She had John's version and this one was similar but, of course, in much more depth.

'You know, Mary, I really should not say this – or even think it, to be honest – but I have a lot to thank Jim Moriarty for,' Molly declared.

Mary looked shocked.

'Yes, I know, it's an awful thing to say, especially after what poor John had to go through, when he thought Sherlock was dead, but if it hadn't have been for Moriarty, I don't think Sherlock and I would ever have gotten together. I would still be the gibbering idiot in the white coat and he would still be the high functioning sociopath, married to his work.'

'John always says he and I would never have gotten this far if Sherlock had been around when we met. He says Sherlock would have 'seen me off', like a guard dog, protecting his property.' They both laughed

'So we both should be thankful for the Consulting Criminal, then. But don't tell the boys.'

'Don't tell the boys what?' John asked, pushing the bedroom door open. 'Are you two having your own private party here or are you planning to join the main event?'

'Yes, we are coming, John,' Molly replied, rolling over, gingerly, and pushing herself upright. 'I think I might be OK for a minute or two, at least.' They made their way back into the sitting room and from there into the kitchen. Between them, the menfolk had set the table and put out the food. The salmon sat on a large oval plate, in the middle of the table, the steamed vegetables were in Denby serving dishes and the white wine sauce was in the sauce boat. There was a large glass jug of iced water on the table, as well as the decanter of Claret.

'My goodness, we should leave the catering to you guys more often. I'm really impressed,' Mary commented. Sherlock smiled at her, then at Molly, and announced,

'Before anyone says it should be white wine with the salmon, I'm claiming house rules. And this house rules that we shall drink whatever we like!'

'Here, here!' said John, as he pulled Mary's chair out for her. Sherlock came round the table and put a protective arm around Molly's shoulders.

'Are you alright?' he asked, hugging her to him.

'Couldn't be better,' she smiled up at him. 'Thank you for all this.' He pressed his lips to her temple, stroking her cheek with his free hand, then pulled out her chair and made sure she was comfortable before going to his own seat. John raised his wine glass and said,

'To mothers, everywhere, but especially here.'

'And fathers, too,' said Mary, raising her glass of water. They all clinked glasses and then got down to the business of serving and eating the celebratory meal.

ooOoo


	7. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Six**

Molly had been awake for some time but every attempt to lift her head from the pillow was met with the same result – extreme nausea. She rolled onto her side and reached for the ever-present glass of water on the night stand. Though she had not succeeded in keeping any solid food down for a number of days, she knew she must keep her fluid levels up. Becoming dehydrated was not an option. The last thing she wanted right now was a hospital admission. She could hear Sherlock and William conversing in William's bathroom, as Sherlock got his son ready for school, though she could not hear what they were saying. She closed her eyes and relaxed her body, in an attempt to forestall the next wave of sickness. She tried to decide if this was worse than last time. She hadn't lost any time off work, when she was carrying William, but she wondered whether she might be giving in to the sickness more, because she had Sherlock to take care of things, now. No, it was definitely worse, this time around. She only had herself to worry about last time and, had it been this bad, she would not have gone to work. I mean to say, she thought, I can't even get out of bed!

In the bathroom, down the corridor, Sherlock was supervising William's tooth brushing.

'Yes, you do need to look after your first set of teeth, even though they will start to fall out in a year or two,' he was explaining. 'You won't get all your grown up teeth until you're nearly as old as I am now, so, for a while, you'll have a mixture of first and second teeth.' William was nodding, sagely, processing the information and storing it away for future reference. He spat out the tooth paste and rinsed his mouth with water, then put his toothbrush back in the charger, to recharge for next time. As they walked back towards the sitting room, William asked if he could say 'bye-bye' to Mummy. Sherlock replied that he could if she wasn't asleep.

'I'm not asleep,' Molly called, weakly, from the master bedroom, so William pushed the door wider and came round the bed to talk to his mother. She reached out and smoothed his unruly mop of hair.

'Don't let Daddy forget to take your violin. It's lesson day, today, isn't it?' Molly reminded him.

'Don't worry, Mummy, we won't forget. Daddy says you never need to forget anything, if you organise your brain properly. He says he'll show me how to do that, when I'm a bit older. He says I don't need to do it yet because I don't have enough memories to need to organise them. I can just remember them anyway,' William explained.

'Well, Daddy should know. He's got the best organised brain in the world,' Molly commented, smiling.

'Yes, that's what he said,' William agreed.

'OK, darling, you'd better go now. You don't want to be late, do you?' Molly said, so he gave her a hug and a kiss and ran out of the room. Molly listened to the familiar sounds of the morning routine and then heard the front door open and close, leaving her alone in the flat. She closed her eyes again and surrendered to sleep.

Walking down the road, William said,

'Mummy's been poorly for a long time, hasn't she? Will she get better soon?'

Sherlock looked down at the little boy and saw worry in his eyes. He stopped, reached down and picked him up, so he could talk to his son face to face. He was in a bit of a quandary, now. Molly had requested that they didn't tell William about the new baby yet, just in case anything went wrong, but how could he put the child's mind at rest without mentioning the baby? He decided he would have to stall until he'd had the opportunity to discuss this with Molly. They should have worked out a strategy. It was remiss of them not to, especially as William was such an observant child. Sherlock looked into the boy's eyes, wondering how much information he could cope with and how to simplify it, without making it even more confusing. The sooner they told him what was really going on, the better, but for now, he said,

'Yes, Mummy will be better, really soon. You don't need to worry about her. I'll take good care of her and you will help me, won't you?' said Sherlock, smiling reassuringly, he hoped. William smiled back.

'Yes, and then she'll get better!' he agreed. They walked on, with William sitting in his favourite place, in the crook of Sherlock's arm, and they chatted about violin lessons and Mind Palaces and why baby teeth have to fall out.

ooOoo

Sherlock had not been back in the flat more than five minutes, after dropping William off at school, when his mobile rang. It was DI Lestrade.

'Remember that Runaway Bride case?' he asked.

'Obviously, I do, since it was only last month. Why?' Sherlock asked.

'Because she's turned up again,' Lestrade replied.

'Well, there's clearly more to it than that or you wouldn't be phoning me,' Sherlock commented.

'Yes, you're right, as usual. She's been found dead,' said Lestrade. 'Will you come?'

'Where is she?' Sherlock asked.

'Regents Canal, Islington. Found this morning, floating in one of the Basins.'

'I'll meet you there as soon as I can. I just need to sort something out, first.' Sherlock hung up. He stood for a moment, tapping his phone on his chin, then rang Mrs Hudson's number.

'Hi, Mrs H. Sorry to bother you but, could you help me out? I need someone to sit with Molly,' he began. Having explained the situation to Mrs Hudson, he went into the bedroom to see it Molly was awake. As he approached the bed, she stirred and opened her eyes. He knelt down by the bedside and put his hand on the crown of her head, stroking her temple with his thumb.

'I have to go out. Lestrade called. A case I was involved with has had a new development. They want me to take a look,' he explained.

'No, that's fine, you go, I'll be OK,' she said, smiling at the deep concern in his eyes.

'I've called Mrs Hudson. She's going to come over and just be around, in case you need anything. I expect she'll probably Spring-clean the kitchen, while she's about it, too. You know what she's like,' he said, with a small laugh. 'I told her to get a cab and I'd pay. She says she'll be about an hour. Do you need anything before I go?'

'Just fill up my water glass, please,' she asked. He brought her a fresh glass of chilled water and then pressed his lips to her forehead.

'William is getting worried about you. I think we need to tell him what's going on. Can we talk about it when I get back?' he asked.

'Yes, of course. You're right, we do need to explain. He's your son. I should have known we couldn't keep it from him for long. Go on, off you go, I'll be fine.'

He kissed her again and left.

ooOoo

The cab dropped Sherlock on Duncan Terrace and he walked down the curved ramp to the tow path, joining the canal just before it disappeared into the tunnel which took it under the Angel, Islington. From there, it was a short walk to the Wenlock Basin. It was quite pleasant, walking along the tow path, where it was green and leafy and the air smelt fresh and clean, compared with the city centre bustle of The Angel, mere yards away. It was almost like being in the countryside. There were Mallard ducks, Canada geese, coots and moorhens on the water, and gulls, that had never seen the sea, soaring overhead and calling, raucously, from the roofs of the buildings that lined the canal banks. Joggers passed him, in both directions, pounding the pavement with a grim determination and cyclists tinkled their bells to alert the pedestrians to their presence, before whizzing by. There was a small community of narrow boats, moored alongside the tow path, some partaking of a little cottage industry, selling craft items to the passers-by. One such, offered coffee and sandwiches, and had placed some rough-hewn logs on the pathway, to provide a seating area. Had he not been on his way to a potential crime scene, he might have stopped and taken in the ambiance of the bohemian atmosphere. But, since he was, Sherlock bought a coffee in a polystyrene cup and took it with him.

As he followed the bend of the canal, to the left, he spotted the tight knot of activity on the opposite bank, centred on a white tent that had been erected over the body, to shield it from prying eyes in the surrounding buildings, whilst forensic officers scoured it for clues. Sherlock crossed the canal via the road bridge at Wharf Road then approached the Basin along Wenlock Road. He showed his pass to the officer at the entrance to the basin environs and was allowed inside. Since he was now being officially consulted by the Met, he had been given an Access All Areas pass, which saved him having to explain himself to every Tom, Dick or Bobby who happened to be manning the police tapes on any given occasion. It did make life much easier, he conceded. On entering the Basin area, he spotted DI Lestrade and approached him. The DI walked with him toward the SoC tent, explaining as they went.

'She was spotted floating in the water by one of the residents, early this morning,' Lestrade explained. The basin was surrounded by executive apartments, most of which had balconies. A body would have been very obvious from such a vantage point.

'Could have been pushed in or maybe dumped…'' the DI speculated.

'Or could have been washed in from the canal,' Sherlock suggested.

'How could that happen? It's a canal, not a river. There's no current to move a body along,' interjected a familiar voice.

'Good morning, Anderson, how nice to see you again, and you so off the ball, as usual!' Sherlock beamed at the Forensics Officer. 'There is a regular traffic of narrow boats along this canal, in both directions. The bow wave of any one of them is probably sufficient to wash a body into the basin, if it met it at just the right point in the water, so it is entirely possible that the body came from the canal. We will know better after an analysis of any trace evidence which, hopefully, Anderson, your team are busy gathering. Let's see, shall we?' With this parting shot, Sherlock lifted the flap of the SoC tent and ducked inside. DI Lestrade put a hand on Anderson's chest to deter him from following, then ducked into the tent himself.

The young woman was lying on her back, on a sheet of black plastic that had been placed on the ground, to protect the body from contamination. Her skin was deathly white and her lips dark purple, which could be attributable to the effect of drowning or to the coldness of the water. The forensics officers, at a signal from the DI, stood back, to let Sherlock walk around the body. Having circled it once, he knelt down and closely examined her hands and forearms, which were bare, due to the fact that she was wearing a knitted shug, the sleeves of which stopped just below the elbows. There appeared to be no bruising or any defensive marks, to indicate that the girl had tried to beat off her attacker. She could have been attacked from behind, of course, he noted. She was not wearing any shoes. One could assume that these had fallen off in the water. If they could be found, that might help to establish exactly where she had gone in.

'Have her shoes been found?' Sherlock asked.

'Not yet,' Lestrade replied. 'We have divers on the way to search under the water.' Sherlock nodded to acknowledge that information. He lowered his head to the ground to look at the soles of the woman's feet, without having to touch the body. He noted small pieces of gravel stuck in the crease between the hallux and the ball of both feet. This might indicate that she had been walking barefoot, in which case, there may not be any shoes to find.

He then looked at her wrist watch. The fact that she still had a wrist watch militated against a mugging. No self-respecting mugger would have left behind such a valuable prize, unless, of course, she had fallen into the water whilst trying to escape a mugger, before they had time to take all they wanted. The watch was still working and showed the correct time.

'Any personal effects? Hand bag? Mobile phone?' Sherlock asked.

'Credit card, in the pocket of her dress. That's how we ID'd her,' Lestrade replied.

'Anything else in the pockets?'

'Just a soggy tissue.'

'Well, that can be tested for DNA,' Sherlock concluded. He stood up. 'Ok, Did anyone see or hear anything?'

'We're conducting a door to door. Sgt Donovan is co-ordinating that. We're checking all the flats and the local pubs and restaurants, to see if anyone remembers her from last night, who she might have been with, where she might have been. Obviously, we'll know more when the PM's been done.' Lestrade and Sherlock exited the tent and began to walk towards the way out of the Basin.

'Bit unfortunate you found her, really,' Lestrade commented. 'Maybe she had good reason to run away, after all.' Sherlock looked at him with disdain.

'If that was a crude attempt to make me feel guilty for doing the job you asked me to do, it failed miserably. The woman is dead. We don't know why or by what means. She might have just had one too many and fallen in the water by accident. Even if she was unlawfully killed, the guilty person is the one who killed her, not the person who found where she was hiding out.' Sherlock turned and began to walk away.

'Oi, Sherlock, stop!' Lestrade hurried after him, caught him by the arm and pulled him round so they were face to face. 'Look, I'm sorry. That was a cheap shot. I know it's no one's fault but the person who did it. Please, don't just walk off.'

'I'm not walking off, I'm going about my business,' Sherlock replied, still looking a little frosty. 'I thought I'd meet you back at the Yard, take another look at her list of friends and family, see if anyone jumps out as having a motive. Might as well do something, whilst we wait for the post mortem report. Who's doing the PM, by the way?'

'It'll be done at Westminster. Want to watch?' Lestrade asked.

'Yes, thank you,' Sherlock replied. 'But, first, the background details, if you don't mind.'

'Want a lift?' Lestrade asked, indicating his unmarked police car.

'Why not!' Sherlock answered, and slid into the front passenger seat.

ooOoo


	8. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Seven**

Anthea was at her desk, typing a letter that her boss had dictated, last thing, the previous afternoon. Typing a letter was an unusual request to a PA from a boss. People did not write letters these days, they sent emails. But Mycroft Holmes was no ordinary boss and he liked to do things the old fashioned way. He liked paper. Paper was tangible. It was something one could hold in one's hand. One could add a signature to a piece of paper and it would make it uniquely yours. So Anthea still typed letters and Mycroft still signed them.

Anthea was surprised when the door opened and two men walked into her office. This had never happened before. No one came to this office without an appointment – not even the PM; not even the monarch herself! Even as she rose to challenge the intruders, she touched the pressure pad under her desk, which simultaneously alerted Mycroft to the fact that something untoward was happening in the outer office, triggered the electronic lock on the connecting door, into Mycroft's office and sounded an alarm in the security room on the ground floor of the building.

'You have no business here. Who are you?' Anthea demanded of the two men. Even as she spoke, the phone on her desk rang out. She picked up the receiver.

'Yes, sir. There are two men in my office,' she said, then paused to listen. Her next words, she addressed to the men, who had not yet spoken.

'Mr Holmes would like to know who you are and why you are here.' One of the men reached into the inside pocket of his suit, causing Anthea to tense. Noticing this, the man said,

'Don't be alarmed, Miss Smith. I'm not armed.' He held his jacket open, so that she could see him take a leather wallet from his jacket pocket. He presented it to her, in an outstretched hand. She took it, opened it and read the ID card inside it, checking that the head shot on the card matched the face of the person in front of her. She then spoke into the phone.

'He's an MI5 Intelligence Officer, sir. His name is Agent Renadon.' She listened again to the voice of her boss then handed the wallet back to Agent Renadon and held out her had to the other man. He took out a similar wallet, handed it over and she checked the photo image against the man, then read the name into the phone receiver.

'MI5 Intelligence Officer Agent Lovell, sir.' Even as she spoke, the outer door to her office opened to reveal two security guards.

'Sorry, Miss Smith, we were told not to announce them,' one said. She nodded to the men and the guards withdrew. At the same time, the door to Mycroft's office opened and her boss emerged and scrutinized the two MI5 men.

'Was it entirely necessary for you gentlemen to alarm my PA by appearing, unannounced in her office?' he asked.

'We do not usually give advance warning of our arrival, sir,' Renadon replied.

'Do you imagine I have a secret trapdoor that I can leap into, in order to escape your intentions?' Mycroft asked. He did, in fact, have an emergency escape route but they did not need to know that.

'No, sir, but you might have a secret paper shredder,' Renadon retorted.

'Indeed, I do have one of those, Agent Renadon. I call her Anthea. Well, I suppose you'd better come in and tell me what this is all about. Would you like tea?' he asked.

'No, sir, we won't take tea, thank you. And, Miss Smith, you will join us, please,' stated the Intelligence Officer. Anthea looked to Mycroft and he nodded, so she followed the men into her boss's office, where he invited Anthea to sit in one of the two leather wing chairs and he sat behind his desk. Agent Renadon sat in the other wing chair, Agent Lovell stood by the door. Mycroft placed his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers under his chin. He waited for Agent Renadon to play the first card.

'There has been a security leak from your department, sir,' the agent began. Mycroft raised an eyebrow. 'It was highly sensitive information, the sort that only a very small number of people would have access to.' Mycroft continued to stare at the man but said nothing. 'Only three people had access to this information, sir.' Mycroft allowed his eyes to roll, momentarily, to the ceiling, indicating his boredom with this protracted delivery of information. 'Those three people were the Home Secretary, Miss Smith and yourself, sir.' Mycroft nodded his head, his lips forming into a silent 'O'. 'Consequently, sir, your PA and you, yourself, are under investigation.'

'And the Home Secretary?' Mycroft asked. The MI5 agent pursed his lips and went on to say,

'Whilst this investigation is taking place, sir, you and Miss Smith are to be suspended from duty. You will relinquish all materials pertaining to your positions here, along with your passports.'

'Suspended on full pay, I hope,' Mycroft interrupted. 'This is not a huge issue for myself but I am sure Anthea has expenses that rely upon her having a regular and reliable income.'

'Yes, sir, I do believe that your pay will not be affected until the completion of the investigation,' Agent Renadon confirmed. Mycroft turned to Anthea, who had maintained a calm demeanour throughout the exchange between Mycroft and the agent.

'Well, Anthea, it would appear that we are to have a second holiday. It is a pity neither of us will be able to take advantage of any cheap, out of season, bargain flights to St. Tropez or anywhere similar but, no doubt, we will each find some pleasurable activity with which to pass the time.' Agent Renadon turned to Anthea.

'Agent Lovell will escort you home, Miss Smith and collect your passport. I must advise you that you will be subject to twenty-four hour surveillance whilst the investigation is on-going and you will be called to answer questions, at some point.' Turning back to Mycroft, he said.

'You need to come with me, sir.'

Anthea rose from her chair and turned towards Mycroft. For the first time, a look of concern passed fleetingly across her face.

'Anthea, my dear,' Mycroft smiled at her, reassuringly, 'perhaps you would be good enough to cancel my lunch appointment. I clearly will not be able to attend it.'

'Of course, sir,' she replied, 'with pleasure.' Anthea walked back into he own office, shut down her computer, closed and locked the drawers to her desk and to the filing cabinet and gave the keys to Agent Lovell, waiting by the door. She picked up her handbag and coat, then walked out of the office, into the lift and travelled down to the ground floor, where she handed her security pass to the agent and, following him outside, got into the staff car that was waiting there. The agent got in beside her and the car drove away.

Mycroft locked his desk and then turned to the agent.

'My passport is in the safe in this office. My deputy knows where to find it. I will hand over my keys to her, Agent Renadon. I doubt you have sufficient clearance to be permitted access to the information locked in my desk.' He picked up his umbrella and overcoat and walked out of the office, along the corridor and into another office, where he found his deputy and her PA, standing in a stunned huddle, in the outer office. He reached out his hand and placed his keys and his security pass into the hand of Charlotte Newton.

'Please take good care of the department, while I'm away, Charlotte. I would hate to come back and find it broken,' he smiled.

'Of course, sir, absolutely,' she replied.

Mycroft then walked out of the office and led the way to the lift. He knew where to go. He had made this short journey to the interrogation rooms many times in the past, though never before with the expectation of being on the receiving end of the questions.

ooOoo

Sherlock sat in DI Lestrade's office, perusing the file in his hand. It was the background details to the 'Runaway Bride' case. So far, he had identified four individuals who may have had a motive to murder the young woman, depending upon what one considered to be a viable motive. Lestrade's phone rang and the DI answered it, listened, replied in the affirmative and hung up.

'They're ready to begin the post mortem,' he advised Sherlock. They both stood and left the office.

Sitting in the viewing area at Westminster Public Mortuary, both men had a clear, close-up view of the PM, via the CCTV link to the post mortem room, where the forensic pathologist was about to begin the examination. The body had been stripped and all the clothes and personal effects sent to the forensics suite, where a detailed examination would identify, preserve and catalogue every scrap of evidence there to be found. Sherlock would be interested to view their findings, in the coming days, but the priority at the moment was to establish whether or not a crime had been committed at all. The pathologist looked up at the overhead camera and asked if they were ready for him to begin. Via the com link, Lestrade said they were, so the PM began.

ooOoo

Anthea sat in the staff car, beside Agent Lovell, outwardly calm but inwardly seething. How dare they accuse Mycroft Holmes and herself of being responsible for this security leak? The most likely source of the leak was the Home Secretary's office. They were all amateurs there, politically ambitious, more interested in self-promotion of a fast-tracked rise through the ranks of the Civil Service than they were in national security. She could well imagine one of those being tempted to indulge in a little espionage on the side, in order to feather their little nest or as an act of revenge for some perceived slight or being passed over for the plum job they believed was theirs by right. She wondered how many of those had been relieved of their duties that morning.

She and Mycroft were professionals. She had been a field agent, recruited by MI6 straight from Cambridge, where her field of Arab Studies and her facility in Arabic languages, including Farsi and Dari, had made her an attractive prospect. She had seen ten years of active service, during which, there was not a hot spot for terrorism in the Middle East in which she had not spent time. Her physical appearance and her fluency in so many local dialects had provided a perfect cover. She had survived many a close encounter with some very dangerous people but the last incident, on the Gaza Strip, though not by any means the closet shave, was the final straw. In the same way that a jump jockey accepts crashing falls and broken bones as an occupational hazard until, one day, they wake up and realise they can't do it any more, she had realized, after Gaza, that she had to hang up her field operative boots and take a desk job.

Mycroft Holmes had selected her to be his PA on the basis of her field service record and because of her calm, assured manner. She could always be relied upon to be cool in a crisis, and she had a deep and detailed understanding of the terrorist mentality. It had been at Andrea's suggestion that they had installed the electronic lock on Mycroft's office door. Had terrorists managed to penetrate the security of the Whitehall building, all the way to Mycroft's door, his safety was the ultimate priority. The locking of the door would give him opportunity to access the emergency escape route, via the basement of the building, under Horse Guards Parade, opposite, into Whitehall barracks. It was his duty to make his escape and her duty to be his last line of defence.

She had kept up her martial arts skills with a daily exercise work out and weekly unarmed combat practice. She also kept up her firearms proficiency through weekly target practice at the military firing range, at Whitehall barracks. When the two agents had entered her office that morning, she knew she was quite capable of disarming them, had that been required but, equally, she would have been prepared to do whatever was necessary to stall them, had they presented a physical threat to her boss.

This accusation of leaking vital secrets was an insult both to her and to Mycroft, but she did not see it as a threat. They would not find any evidence. The threat would come if they decided to manufacture some.

The car pulled up outside her building and she go out, to be followed inside by Lovell. A quick scan around her sitting room told her that someone had been in her flat, probably fitting cameras and microphones. She walked over to her bureau and unlocked a drawer, taking out her passport and handing it to the agent. He accepted it with a polite nod, and left. Anthea then walked round the rest of her flat, noting the positions of all the surveillance equipment. Even in the bathroom, you pathetic little men, she thought. On the way home, they had passed a white van, parked just down the street, where she knew the surveillance team would be sitting, gawping at the images being relayed from her residence. She had no issue with them spying on her but she was not going to satisfy their sordid little souls by giving them access to her more intimate moments. She went back to her bureau and took out an object which looked a bit like a torch. She then went back into the bathroom, pointed the object at each of the tiny cameras and pressed the button on the device, disabling the cameras, one at a time. She then did the same thing in her bedroom. Returning to her sitting room, she looked pointedly into the camera above her television and said,

'Sorry, guys, but this is not a peep show.' She then put the device back in her drawer.

She went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, whilst she thought about how she could comply with Mycroft's final instruction. He had asked her to cancel his lunch appointment. This was, of course, a coded message. She had to assume that her phone calls were being monitored, both mobile and landline, but she believed they did not know about her emergency mobile. She would only be able to use it once, so she had to make sure that the message she had to send reached the right person and no one else. She would need to think about how to accomplish this task, so a cup of tea was just what was called for at that moment.

ooOoo


	9. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Eight**

Mycroft sat down on the chair that he was offered, one side of the metal table. He crossed one knee over the other and folded his hands in his lap. Renadon had taken his coat and umbrella. He had to admit to feeling a little naked without them. After a short pause, the door opposite opened and a familiar figure came in. Mycroft stood, out of conditioned respect for the new arrival.

'Oh, please sit down, Mr Holmes. No need to stand on ceremony here,' said Dame Joan Manning, the Director-General of MI5.

'As you wish, ma'am,' Mycroft acquiesced and retook his seat. The DG sat on the chair opposite.

'You present us with a bit of a problem, Mr Holmes,' she said.

'I do apologise, ma'am,' he replied.

'Yes, it is all a little unfortunate. We can't expect our own people to interrogate you, since you trained most of them. And we can't use any usual methods to conduct the interrogation, since you designed nearly all of them,' Dame Joan stated, bluntly.

'Indeed, ma'am, I fear you are quite correct in your analysis of the situation,' Mycroft apologised, again.

'Neither can we ask our American cousins to lend a hand, since the same conditions apply to them, also,' she went on. Mycroft simply nodded.

'So we've had to look a little further afield for assistance. We have been fortunate in obtaining the services of Mossad.' She paused and waited for Mycroft to respond. He didn't.

'Are you familiar with the name Isser Zamir?' she asked.

'I am, ma'am,' Mycroft replied.

'He will be leading the interrogation team,' she confirmed. Mycroft nodded again.

'Mr Holmes, it would make things so much easier if you would just tell us what you know about the security leak. It would save a great deal of time and trouble,' she implored him.

'Ma'am, if I knew anything about it, I would be more than happy to tell you but, until this morning, I was entirely unaware that there had been a security leak,' Mycroft declared.

'I am sure you know which particular document the leak refers to,' she commented.

'I can make an educated guess,' he replied. 'I can only think of one particular document that fits all the criteria. Does that make me look guilty?' he asked.

'Not necessarily but you are a clever man, Mr Holmes, and we are sure that, if you were guilty, you would cover your tracks well,' she replied.

'I'm curious to know what my motive might be, to suddenly turn rogue,' he mused.

'Unfortunately, Mr Holmes, on this occasion, you are not asking the questions.' She stood up and so did he.

'I do sincerely hope that we meet again under better circumstances,' Dame Joan said, with a regretful smile. Mycroft nodded but did not give any further response. His mind was on other matters, notably the imminent arrival of Agent Zamir.

ooOoo

The post mortem was almost complete. The cause of death had been confirmed as drowning. There were no obvious injuries to the body, other than some minor abrasions that had been inflicted whilst removing the corpse from the water, so were accounted for. Her last meal had been lamb and vegetables. She had consumed a certain amount of alcohol; the blood tests would show whether or not she was intoxicated. Blood and tissue samples had been taken to be tested for, amongst other things, any chemical substances. Sherlock had watched the whole process with an intense concentration that Lestrade could only admire and marvel at. He had taken in every detail, whilst being totally oblivious to everything else going on around him. It was almost as though he were in a trance-like state. Lestrade's phone had rung a number of times during the PM, but Sherlock had not even blinked. As the pathologist completed his examination and switched off the camera and microphone, Sherlock seemed to snap out of his trance and turn to look at Lestrade.

'Well, you clearly have some news,' he stated, bluntly.

'We know where she ate her last meal and who she ate it with,' Lestrade told him. Sherlock baulked slightly at the bad grammar but had given up correcting Greg Lestrade a long time ago. He simply raised his eyebrows, to prompt the DI to divulge this information.

'She had dinner at the Commissary with her former fiancé,' Lestrade announced. 'We're picking him up, just about now. Do you want to sit in on the interview?'

'No,' replied Sherlock, 'I'd like to speak to the people at the Commissary.' He stood up and left the mortuary, leaving Lestrade to confer with the pathologist.

ooOoo

Mrs Hudson had just finished Spring-cleaning the kitchen when Marie arrived, bringing William home from school.

'Oh, hello, Mrs H, it's so nice to see you again.' Marie greeted her, as William hurtled into the kitchen and gave Mrs Hudson a huge hug.

'Where's Daddy?' he asked.

'Daddy had to go to work, William,' Mrs H replied. William looked disappointed.

'Where's Mummy?' he asked.

'She's in bed, darling. Did you want to go and see her?' she asked. He nodded, with his bottom lip trembling slightly. Marie stepped in.

'Come on, then, William, let's see if she's awake.' William preceded Marie down the short corridor to his parents' bedroom. As he pushed open the door, Molly stirred and turned to look at him. She smiled and beckoned for him to come into the room. She saw Marie standing behind and said,

'It's OK, Marie, you can leave him here. I'll send him back when he's ready.' The nanny went back to the kitchen.

'How's your hip?' she enquired of Mrs Hudson.

'Oh, my hip's as good as it gets, thanks for asking, dear. Would you like a cup of tea?'

'Love one,' replied Marie. 'How's Molly?'

'Oh, not very good, I'm afraid. She hasn't eaten a thing, all day. She says even the thought of food makes her want to heave. She just keeps sipping water. She's been asleep for most of the day. Sherlock's on a case. He had to go out this morning and I haven't heard from him since. Sometimes, we don't see him for days, when he's working, though I expect you know that, already.'

'Yes,' Marie agreed, 'I've stayed over a time or two, to help Molly out, when he's been in the middle of something complicated. He's like a different person when he's working – so intense.'

'Oh, God, you don't know the half of it. He used to be even worse when he wasn't working. He used to get bored so easily and then he would be unbearable. At least when he was working he was quite cheerful. He's a lot calmer now, though. But then he's got plenty to occupy his mind, now, especially William. He adores that little boy. I think he sees a lot of himself in little Will. It grounds him. Who would have thought he would make such a good dad, when he used to behave like a five year old, half the time?' Mrs Hudson poured boiling water into the teapot and set it on a tray, on the kitchen table. She and Marie sat opposite one another and she continued her reminiscences.

'When he met John, that was when he started to change. He'd never had a proper friend before. John taught him about friendship, just by being loyal and showing him that he cared. He acted as the go-between, too. When Sherlock used to annoy people, John would smooth things over. And he used to tell Sherlock off about it. The weird thing was, Sherlock would listen to John and take on board what he said. I've never known him do that with anyone else – except for Molly, of course, but only after he came back from being away all that time. Before he jumped off the roof of St Barts – you do know about that, don't you?' Marie nodded. Molly had told her all about that, when she had stayed over, while Sherlock was in hospital, after disappearing from St. Hugh's.

'Yes, well, before he jumped off the roof, he used to be really horrible to Molly a lot of the time. But she just accepted that it was just the way he was and she loved him so much, anyway. But, when he needed help, he went to her, cos he knew he could always rely on her. See, loyalty, again, and caring. He knew she cared about him. You see, those of us who knew him best – who really knew him – could see that he was a really good person, inside; he just wasn't very good at showing it. He's a lot better at it now. He's learned a lot from John and Molly. But, when he's working, he does tend to revert back to the old Sherlock. He gets totally involved with the case and nothing else matters. Although he does, at least, remember to text, now and then, to let Molly know where he is. Well, to be honest, he does it to let William know where he is, cos he knows William really misses him when he's not here. They are so alike, I sometimes think he can read William's mind – but then, I sometimes think he can read anyone's mind, when he's doing his deductions. Have you ever seen him do that?'

'Oh, yes,' Marie replied, 'he did it to me when I first started to look after William. Fortunately, the other Mr Holmes had warned me that he would know everything about me within minutes of meeting him, so I was expecting something but the amount of detail was quite staggering. If I hadn't known better, I would have thought he'd been stalking me.' The two women laughed about that.

'What time do you finish, dear?' Mrs Hudson asked.

'Oh, five-thirty, usually,' Marie replied.

'Well, when it's your time, you go. I'll take care of William. I don't suppose Sherlock will be home by then and Molly, well, she's laid up, bless her.'

Marie offered to help Mrs Hudson prepare supper, which she accepted, and the two women set about the task.

ooOoo

William climbed onto his parents' bed and cuddled up to his mother.

'Hi, baby, did you have a nice day at school today?' Molly asked.

'Yes, thank you, Mummy. I had my violin lesson. We played 'Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star' and 'Three Blind Mice'. Have you had a nice day?' he asked

'Not too bad, babe. I've been sleeping a lot. Mrs Hudson came to look after me because Daddy had to go out. She's been taking good care of me,' Molly said, trying to reassure him. He looked so concerned.

'Will you be better soon, Mummy? I don't like it when you are poorly.' His little face crumpled and large tears rolled down his cheeks. Molly reached out to pull him to her in a comforting hug.

'Oh, William, don't cry, baby,' she soothed. 'Listen to me, darling.' She pushed herself up to a sitting position and put her hand under his chin, to raise his face to look at her.

'Listen really carefully because I'm going to tell you something very important,' she stressed. He looked at her, intently.

'I'm not really poorly, darling. I feel poorly because I have a new baby in my tummy and it's the new baby that's making me feel poorly,' she explained. William wrinkled his brow and looked a bit confused. Molly thought how best to explain this.

'You know if you have a new pair of shoes, they hurt your feet for a while, until you get used to them?' she asked. William nodded.

'Well, it's kind of the same with the baby in my tummy. It's making me feel poorly until I get used to it being there and then I'll be fine. It's just taking a while for me to get used to it, that's all. But, in the end, we'll have a new baby and you'll have a new brother or a sister to play with,' she concluded. William tried to make sense of this new information. Molly could almost see the cogs turning behind his eyes. She thought of another way to explain.

'Do any of your friends at school have brothers or sisters?' she asked. William gave this careful thought.

'Yes, they do. Charlie has a big brother, called George. Rosemary and Caroline are twins, so they have each other. Freddie got a baby sister, for Christmas. I don't think he asked for one but he got one anyway,' William concluded.

'Well, Daddy and I decided that we wanted to have another baby, which would be a brother or a sister for you. So the new baby is growing in my tummy, because that's where babies grow, right in here.' She pointed to her abdomen

'William, that's where you came from' she added. William looked at her and thought about that for a moment or two, then said,

'I came from the hospital. You showed me pictures of me in the hospital with you and Uncle Mytoft, when I was a baby.' Molly gave a little chuckle.

'Yes, that is true, you were in the hospital but before that, you were in my tummy. I have pictures of you in my tummy, too. I suppose I just never thought to show them to you. But I will and then you'll see where you came from.' She was beginning to feel nauseous again, from sitting up so long, so she reached out for the water, took a few sips, then lay back down in the bed.

'So you don't need to worry about me, OK? I will feel better, when I get used to having the baby here, right?' she repeated, to make sure he understood. He nodded and looked a little reassured. It was a lot to take in, she realised, and he was only three and a half, after all.

'Do you want to go and watch TV, now? Your favourite programme will be on, won't it?' she reminded him. He nodded and smiled, gave her a hug and scrambled off the bed, to run into the sitting room and take up his position on the sofa, TV remote in hand .

Molly lay back on the pillows. She hoped Sherlock would not be upset at her for going ahead with explaining to William about why she was so sick but she couldn't bear to see him looking so worried. She also hoped she had done a reasonable job of the explanation. Only time would tell, she thought, reaching out to sip some more water, then rolling over and going back to sleep.

ooOoo


	10. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Nine**

Mycroft looked at his watch, then raised his eyes to meet those of Isser Zamir.

'I don't presume to tell you how to do your job, Mr Zamir, but I have been here for six hours. Under the terms of the Geneva Convention, I am entitled to a rest period,' he declared.

'Mr Holmes, surely you would prefer to get this over with and then you could go home,' Zamir replied. Mycroft pursed his lips.

'I have answered all your questions to the best of my ability. The fact that you are dissatisfied with my answers is unfortunate but beyond my control. I can only apologise for disappointing you,' Mycroft stated, with a sigh of resignation.

'But, Mr Holmes, if you have nothing to hide, why are you being do evasive?'

'I am not. I have told you, several times – but will repeat myself, yet again – my trip to America was on personal business. It had nothing to do with the department. It has nothing to do with this leak. It was a private enterprise. I have no desire to share the purpose of my trip with you or anyone else.'

'But what about the money, Mr Holmes? What about these large sums of money which you have paid to an anonymous recipient, having gone to a great deal of trouble to route the payments through various clearing agents, making it impossible to track. Don't you think that looks rather suspicious?'

'I am a cautious man, Mr Zamir. I simply wish the recipient to remain anonymous. There is no intrigue. I am just being careful to protect the identity of the beneficiary.'

'Surely you can see why that would make you vulnerable to suspicion?'

'Mr Zamir, you are, by nature, a suspicious man. Never the less, since I know that I am above suspicion and that you will not find a single shred of evidence to link me to this leak, I see absolutely no reason to reveal the identity of that beneficiary.'

'Mr Holmes, your trip to America coincided exactly with the period of time when the leak occurred. And these payments began at the same time.'

'Well, I was wondering when that fact would occur to you,' Mycroft remarked.

'What is your point, Mr Holmes?'

'If the leak occurred whilst I was in America, how could I have had anything to do with it? Surely whom so ever was in charge of the department at the time would have been dealing with that particular document?'

'No, Mr Holmes. Apparently the Home Secretary withheld the document in question until you returned from your holiday. It would have been one of the first items you looked at on your return.

'So in what way is my trip to America implicated, then?' Mycroft asked.

'Are you being blackmailed, Mr Holmes?'

Mycroft looked askance at the Mossad agent and then burst out laughing. He shook his head and tried to control his mirth but was unable to do so for some moments. Eventually, he stifled the giggles and leaned back in his chair, sighing, loudly.

'What possible skeletons do you imagine I have in my cupboard, Mr Zamir, tell me, please?'

'What about your sexuality, Mr Holmes?' Zamir suggested.

'I make no secret of my sexuality. I am openly gay. Everyone in the department, indeed, everyone in the government and the entire Civil Service knows that I'm gay. Admittedly, I don't carry a multi-coloured umbrella and parade in stockings and suspenders for Gay Pride but, if I were to do so, I don't think anyone would be too surprised. Well, perhaps a little surprised, at the stockings and suspenders. Is that the best you've got?' he snorted. He looked at his watch again.

'Look here, Zamir, you are wasting your time and mine. I have nothing to say to you that I have not already said. I suggest we end this ridiculous charade and perhaps start trying to find the actual source of this leak. You really are barking up the wrong tree with me. And, may I remind you again that I am entitled to a rest period. I'm bored with this, now.' He folded his arms and looked more like Sherlock in a sulk than he had ever looked, in his life, before.

Zamir stood up and looked down at Mycroft.

'Excuse me, Mr Holmes,' he said and left the room. Mycroft inspected his nails, briefly, then refolded his arms. When the door opened again, it was Agent Renadon. He stood in front of Mycroft.

'I've been instructed to take you to your apartment. Sir, but you are to remain there, under guard. You are, effectively, under house arrest,' the agent advised him.

'Oh, and I had tickets for the opera,' Mycroft sighed. 'Perhaps you would like to use them, Agent Renadon?' he asked, standing and putting on his jacket, which he had hung on the back of his chair. 'After you,' he invited, indicating with his outstretched arm for the agent to lead the way.

ooOoo

Anthea was concerned. She had sent the message hours ago and received no response. Mycroft Holmes had asked her, in front of the agents, to cancel his lunch appointment, so they would be expecting her to contact someone. She had fulfilled that expectation, with the text she had sent to Mycroft's brother, using the mobile she knew to be monitored:

'Sorry, Mr H cannot make lunch today. Apologies, Anthea.'

She had assumed that Sherlock would know the true meaning of this message. Perhaps she'd made a mistake.

ooOoo

Stepping out onto the street, from the Westminster Public Mortuary, Sherlock reached into his inside pocket and took out his phone, to switch it back on. He had turned it off for the duration of the post mortem because he didn't want anything to distract him from the procedure. As his phone rebooted, he saw he had a text from a number he didn't recognise. He read it and came to an abrupt stop. Mycroft had given him this code phrase, years before, as a signal that something was amiss. He had never needed to use it before and it was a little worrying that the message had been sent from Anthea and not from Mycroft himself. He looked at the time that the text had been sent and quietly cursed the fact that he had not received it earlier. It was now well past lunchtime. He quickly typed his response and sent it off.

'OMG, completely slipped my mind! Tell him I'll text him later to reschedule. Cheers, SH'

He waited and, moments later, a second text came, from an entirely different number.

'BFI Screen 1, 7.30.'

Sherlock looked at his watch. It was just after three-thirty. He had time to go to the Commissary first but he needed help. He rang John's number. He answered, after about the fifth ring.

'John, are you busy?' Sherlock asked.

'Well, let me see. I have a department full of patients, the waiting time is four hours and there's a shortage of porters. Apart from that, no, I'm twiddling my thumbs,' John relpied.

'OK, what time does your shift finish?' Sherlock asked. John advised him it was at five o'clock.

'Can you meet me? I'll buy you supper.'

'What's the catch?

'I want you to talk to someone for me.'

'Why can't you talk to them yourself?' John asked.

'I need to watch them while you talk to them.'

'OK, Mary is pulling a late nighter. They're in the middle of a big case so I'm at a loose end. Where do you want to meet?'

Sherlock gave him the address of the Commissary and said he would meet him at five-thirty then hung up.

Next, he rang Mrs Hudson.

'Hello, dear, I was just about to ring you. Will you be needing supper?'

'No, thanks, Mrs H, I might be a bit late home. Are you OK to stay?'

'Of course, dear, I brought my over-night, just in case,' she replied.

'Thank you, Mrs Hudson, you are a real treasure. How's Molly?'

'She hasn't eaten a thing all day. I'm going to try to get her to have some soup, later.'

'And William? Is he OK?'

'Oh, yes. He's just in chatting to his mum. Do you want to speak to him?'

'No, it's OK. Just tell them I called, will you? And thanks again,….you know,…for being..…being you,' he mumbled.

'Any time, dear, you know that. You take care, alright?' He said he would and they both rang off. Putting his phone back into his jacket pocket, he hailed a cab and asked for Eagle Wharf Road, N1, then sat back, deep in thought, for the entire journey.

After the cab dropped him, outside The Commissary, he walked from there to Wenlock Basin, where the 'crime scene', if that is what it was, was still taped off. He walked along the edge of the basin, both sides, and stood by the junction with the canal, looking up towards Angel Wharf. He then crossed over the canal and walked along the tow path, as far as the Rosemary Building, then back to Duncan Terrace, taking in all the salient details, along the way. He then retraced his steps back to The Commissary, approaching it via the side entrance, off Shepherdess Walk, where he pressed the entry pad and was admitted remotely, closing the gate behind him. He walked along the floating wooden pontoons, toward the front of the restaurant. The early evening clientèle was thin on the ground. He sat at an outside table and asked for a coffee.

It was just after five-thirty when John arrived and joined him at the table. Sherlock filled him in on the case background and explained the master plan.

'You will be me, asking about the couple who dined here last night. Here's a list of questions.' He passed his pocket notebook to John, under the table, along with his Met ID card.

'This card has your photo on it,' John pointed out.

'Don't show the photo, just flash the card. People don't look that closely,' Sherlock assured him. The man who had served Sherlock, earlier, approached the table and John 'flashed' the card, quite deftly, and introduced himself as Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, working with the Met.

'I'd like to ask you a few questions about the couple who had dinner here last night,' he explained. The man introduced himself as the owner of the restaurant and expressed his concern that one of his customers should have met such an untimely end. It had been the main topic of conversation along the canal all day.

'It isn't what you could call good publicity for the business,' he commented, with chagrin. John nodded, sympathetically.

'Were they regular customers here?' John asked, referring surreptitiously to Sherlock's notebook.

'Well, not exactly regulars,' the owner explained. 'They were supposed to get married, last year, and they planned to hold their wedding reception here but the bride-to-be did a runner, about a week before the wedding day, so Steve, the groom, he had to come and tell us the bad news. We weren't charging them for the hire of the place but we had a minimum bar take of £3K. It would have been a good day's taking for us. Still, every cloud, and that!' he concluded, enigmatically. John cocked a curious eyebrow at that comment.

'Oh, right, you don't know,' he declared. 'Well, when Steve and Elaine were planning the wedding, they got quite friendly with Heidi, out wedding planner – well, she's a waitress, really, but she does organise the big events. Anyway, when Steve came back to cancel, well, she sort of gave him a shoulder to cry on and now they're a couple. Nice, eh?' he grinned. John nodded, then glanced sideways at Sherlock, wondering whether he should go 'off piste' with the questions but his friend was gazing at the water, looking bored, so he made an executive decision.

'So, if they weren't a couple any more and the groom is now dating your employee, how come they were having a meal together here, last night?' He saw, from the corner of his eye, Sherlock gave a barely discernable nod and John knew he had asked the right question. But the proprietor was already responding.

'When Elaine turned up again, she called Steve to apologise for jilting him and he explained about him and Heidi. They decided to have a 'no hard feelings' meal and Heidi suggested they had it here. She waited on them.'

John referred back to his list of questions.

'Is Heidi here, now?'

The owner nodded. John asked if he could speak to her and the boss went off to find her.

'How am I doing?' John asked.

'You're doing great. You might want to ask for a menu, when you've finished with the questions. We may as well eat here before we go to the cinema,' Sherlock said.

'Are we going to the cinema? Is this a date?' John asked, with a wide grin. Sherlock turned away, as the waitress approached. John introduced himself, again, as the Consulting Detective and then he went through the list of questions which Sherlock had prepared for him. When she had given all the answers, John thanked her for her co-operation and asked her for a menu. They ordered the dish of the day and an Indian Pale Ale for John, and another coffee for Sherlock. When they had finished, they paid the bill and John followed Sherlock back along the wooden pontoons to the steps up to the side gate. He could see that his friend was taking in all the details of the environment so he didn't speak until they were up on the road.

'Did you get everything you needed from that?' John asked.

'Hmmm? Oh, yes, everything, thanks,' Sherlock replied, distractedly.

They reached the main road and Sherlock hailed a cab.

'So what are we going to see?' John enquired, once they were seated and the cab was moving. When Sherlock gave no acknowledgement that he had even heard the question, John settled back to admire the passing scenery, until they were dropped off on Waterloo Bridge. It was ten past seven and almost dark. Once out of the cab, Sherlock walked to the parapet and stood looking down on the river. John stopped beside him and waited for him to say something. Eventually, Sherlock turned around and leaned his back against the parapet.

'OK, John, I want you to go to the BFI and buy a ticket for Screen 1. Someone will meet you there. Listen to what they have to say and then meet me back at Baker Street,' Sherlock explained.

'Do I watch the film or what?' John asked.

'Yes, why not,' Sherlock patted him on the shoulder. 'Enjoy.' The two men looked at one another then Sherlock said,

'Go on, then, John. It starts at seven-thirty. I'll see you at Baker Street,' then he walked away.

John walked to the end of the bridge and down the steps, then under the bridge to the entrance to the British Film Institute. He bought a ticket for Screen 1. It was a Swedish film, about vampires. He'd heard of it, heard it was very good, heard the English language remake was rubbish, by comparison. He found a seat about half way back, on the aisle, settled in and waited for something to happen. Presently, the lights dimmed and the adverts began. It was just as the first of the 'forthcoming attractions' trailers began that John saw a familiar figure climbing the steps toward him. They had only met on two occasions but she had made a big impression on him. She reached his row and he stood to allow her to pass him and take the next seat, then he sat again.

'Anthea,' he greeted her. 'To what do I owe the pleasure?' She turned her head toward him and the light from the screen illuminated her face, causing him to draw back in surprise.

'Yes, close,' the woman said, 'but no cigar.' She looked so like Anthea, from every angle, but, close up, she clearly was not her. 'Let's enjoy the movie, shall we? Would you like an M&M?' She offered him the bag and he took a handful. Then they both sat back and prepared to enjoy the film.

ooOoo

The black cab stopped opposite the door to 221B, Sherlock got out, paid the driver and crossed the pavement to the front door. Opening the door, he went inside, up the stairs and into the flat.

'You found a way in, then,' he remarked to Anthea, who was sitting on the sofa, sipping a mug of tea. She had lit the gas fire, warming the room.

'Yes, the kettle's just boiled,' she replied.

Sherlock took off his coat and scarf, hanging them on the back of the sitting room door, went into the kitchen and made himself a mug of tea then came and sat on his favourite chair, crossed one knee over the other and looked at Anthea over the rim of his mug.

'What's going on?' he asked. Anthea explained everything that had happened that morning and about the surveillance on her flat and herself.

'I was followed to the BFI but I changed places with my doppelganger in the Ladies then she went to meet your friend. I hope they are enjoying the film. I told her to watch the whole thing, to give us the longest time possible to talk. I need to be back there by ten o'clock, to do the reverse swap.' It was eight fifteen.

'So what's your theory?' Sherlock enquired.

'The Home Secretary's office is far more likely to be the source of the leak. It is true that Mr Holmes and I are the only people in our department who handled the particular document to which they're referring. They haven't said which document it is but there is only one that it could be,' she explained.

'And that is?'

'It's the security arrangements for the PM's visit to Pakistan next month. Mr Holmes drafted them before he went to the USA; they were reviewed and approved by the Home Secretary and returned in the diplomatic bag. I opened the bag on the morning Mr Holmes returned, put them in his brief case and took it to the airport with me, so that he could read them in the car, if he wished to do so. The Home Secretary insists that no one in his office had any access to them but him. But, of course, we only have his word for that and politicians are very good at covering their own backs, are they not?'

'Is the Home Office being investigated too?'

'I don't know. I would imagine so but they have handicapped themselves by suspending Mr Holmes….'

'You know, you could call him Mycroft. I really don't think he would mind and it would avoid any confusion, in the present company,' Sherlock interjected.

'Yes, sorry. Force of habit. OK, Mycroft would have the mole sniffed out in no time but he's been suspended from duty. I suspect they've been interrogating him all day, for what good that will have done them. But they must think they have something on him or I don't think they would bother. He's too much like hard work. He will have given them a very hard time.'

'So what do you think they might have?'

'I have no idea. He raised a lot of eyebrows when he decided to take a holiday, especially to America.'

'Yes, mine included. That was so out of character. And he has been so secretive about it, before and since, but I don't believe for one moment that he is involved with anything illicit. My brother is patriotic to the core. If you were to cut him in half, he would have 'Queen and Country' written right through him. So, Miss Smith, what can we do to help him?'

'That's the tough bit. I am being watched, obviously, so I have to be careful not to do anything that might arouse suspicion.'

'What do you mean, like changing places with a look-alike and sneaking off to meet up with me?

'That's only suspicious if they find out. If I just meet a friend at the cinema, that is just having a social life. You, on the other hand, might be able to do some cyber snooping around the Home Secretary, see what you might find. I can refer you to some top notch hackers who would be more than happy to assist. You would be in a much better position to co-ordinate them than I. You are not being watched as closely and everyone knows you're a maverick, so whatever you get up to is no more than people expect. Just don't get caught with your fingers in the till, OK?'

'Well, Miss Smith, I'll do my best.'

She opened her shoulder bag and took out a folded piece of paper which she gave to him.

'Once you've copied those, please burn the paper. It has my writing on it and my fingerprints. What I just performed was an act of treason, albeit in a good cause.' He put the paper in his inside jacket pocket, next to his phone, and assured her that it would be destroyed as soon as he had copied the information contained there on. She stood to leave.

'I probably won't be able to contact you again but Mycroft might. He will probably be under house arrest, now, but he will be allowed to make phone calls and you would be able to visit him, subject to searches and monitoring.'

'I might just pay him a social call. Thank you, Anthea. Mycroft is a lucky man to have such a faithful ally.'

'He's always been a good boss. He's earned my loyalty. Good night, Mr Holmes.' She left via the rear fire escape and disappeared into the darkness below.

Sherlock opened his laptop, took out the paper, copied the information into an encrypted file, saved it in his password protected hard drive, then took the paper into the kitchen, dropped it into a crucible, doused it in pure alcohol and set it alight. It burned to ash in moments then he crumbled the ash to dust, before tipping it into the kitchen waste bin. If anyone cared to try to reconstitute that, he wished them good luck with it.

Half an hour later, he heard the front door open and close and foorsteps on the stairs. John walked into the sitting room.

'Good film?' Sherlock asked.

'Excellent!' John replied. 'No, really brilliant; best vampire film I've ever seen. So, what the fuck is going on?'

ooOoo


	11. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Ten**

Sherlock placed a large, pre-poured glass of scotch in John's hand and pushed him towards his favourite chair before sitting opposite, in his own chair, and beginning his explanation.

'This afternoon, I received a text from Anthea.' He showed John the text on his phone. 'It's a coded message, one of a number of coded messages Mycroft established with me some time ago, incorporating certain key words, for use in specific situations. This particular one, 'cannot make lunch today' - cancelling a non-existent meeting - means we need to arrange a meeting. 'Apologies' means that he can't attend the meeting himself, 'Anthea' means she can. I sent back a message,' he continued, showing John his reply,

'OMG stands for My Own Ground, so the meeting will be here. 'Completely slipped my mind' – simple. I just needed to explain why I hadn't missed him earlier, if I was expecting to meet him for lunch. If I'd answered sooner, I wouldn't have needed to put that in. I could have said 'OMG, not again' or 'OMG, bad luck', whatever. 'Reschedule' means arrange another meeting – a decoy meeting, between someone – in this case, you - and her double. I'm just letting her know she has that option.'

'Oh, right, so you volunteered me even before you asked me to do it?' John snorted. Sherlock just rolled his eyes and returned to the explanation.

'She then sent back the time and place for the decoy meeting.' He showed John the message from the other number, 'NFI, Screen 1, 7.30.'

'When we got to Waterloo Bridge, I had to be sure you and the double wouldn't meet up in the foyer, so I watched from the bridge until I saw her walk up the South Bank and go into the NFI. Then I sent you in. By the time you got there, she was already in the Ladies loo, waiting for Anthea to arrive. When she walked out of there, the goons who followed Anthea from her flat followed the double into the cinema and sat watching the two of you, all night, while Anthea came here to see me. Before the film ended, Anthea had to get back into the toilets, wait until the double came in, then change places again, to be followed back home by the goons. I'm guessing that part went OK?'

'Oh, yes,' John replied. 'We came out of the cinema, she asked me to wait while she went to the Ladies, then Anthea appeared, I walked her out, she hailed a cab, kissed me on the cheek and went. I have no idea what happened to the fake Anthea. Who the hell was that, anyway?'

'No idea. Just someone Anthea uses as a double, when required. That's all I know,' Sherlock replied.

'What about 'Cheers'?' John asked.

'What about…? Oh, right. That's just window dressing.' John wrinkled his brow, not quite seeing the point. Sherlock elucidated.

'People who us 'OMG' often use 'Cheers'. I was just staying in character.'

'Ok, you've explained the 'how', the 'what' and the 'when', how about the 'why'? Why all the cloak and dagger stuff?'

'Mycroft's been suspended, under suspicion of treason. Some sensitive intelligence has been leaked and he is the prime suspect,' Sherlock explained.

'What?! Why, because of the trip to America?'

'Apparently, yes. Anthea feels the leak was from the Home Office so she's asked me to investigate.'

'How can you investigate within a government department?'

'It's probably best for you not to ask, John. The less you know, the better off you'll be, in the long run.'

'And you couldn't explain all this before you sent me into the cinema?' John asked, still irritated at being left in the dark. Sherlock looked at him with frustration.

'No, John, I couldn't. You needed to react naturally to everything that happened in there. If I'd told you more, you wouldn't have been natural. Sorry, but you had to go in cold.'

'This thing you've agreed to do, it sounds dangerous,' John stated, with some trepidation.

'Risky, yes. Dangerous? Possibly. I suppose a lot depends on what I discover and who I upset in the process. But I'm not going to involve you in that any more than I already have. You have a reputation to protect and responsibilities, too.'

'So do you!'

'I know, but he's my brother.' Sherlock shrugged.

ooOoo

It was well past midnight when Sherlock slipped into bed and slid his arm around Molly's sleeping form. He had stayed on at Baker Street for some time, after John left to go home to Mary, in order to send more emails, in addition to the ones he had sent between Anthea leaving and John arriving.

He had noticed, as soon as he entered the bedroom, that the all-pervading aroma of disinfectant, that had lingered over everything for the past week, was singularly absent. It had been replaced by the smell of fresh linen and lemony shower gel. He buried his face in Molly's hair and felt his body relax for the first time that day. She stirred and moved her hand to stroke his arm.

'You came home,' she murmured. Normally, if he was wrapped up in a case, he would stay over at Baker Street.

'I wanted to make sure you and William were alright. You've changed the bed linen. I thought that was Tuesdays,' he commented.

'Mrs Hudson changed the bed linen. She said it would make me feel better and, do you know what, it did! She says, if you're 'bed-ridden' – her phrase, not mine – you should have fresh linen every day, just to cheer yourself up. I'm sure it has health benefits, too. I just didn't have the energy to do it before,' Molly explained.

'I should have thought of that. I could have done it for you,' he replied.

'Hey, don't even go there.' Molly wriggled round until she was face to face with him, hooking her legs over his, so she was effectively sitting in his lap, though they were both horizontal.

'Mrs Hudson made me some delicious chicken soup and I managed to keep it down. I even sat on the sofa for half an hour, afterwards, while she stripped and remade the bed. And I stood up long enough to take a shower.'

'I know, I can smell the shower gel, my shower gel, if I remember rightly,' he teased.

'Mrs H told me that, when she was at school, they were taught to make an 'invalid's meal'. Can you believe that? She said it was steamed fish and mashed potato. I don't know that I could cope with the smell of steaming fish, if I was nauseous already!'

Sherlock chuckled, deep in his chest, and she felt it rumble against her own body.

'What's so funny?' Molly asked, giving him a quizzical smile.

'You are. You sound so much better than this morning,' he replied, hugging her close, pressing his lips against her forehead.

'I do feel better,' she agreed, tucking her head under his chin. 'I think I might be over the worst of it. I hope so anyway. Oh, I should tell you, I told William about the baby.' She paused, wondering if he would be upset that she had gone ahead without him but he didn't seem to mind.

'How did he take it?' he asked.

'I think he was OK. I expect he'll have lots of questions, once he's thought about it but it seemed to cheer him up that I was not actually ill, just pregnant.'

Sherlock had to agree that William would need to assimilate the information and consider the implications but would then, more than likely, have some hypotheses to test out. Those would be interesting times.

'There's something I need to tell you, too,' he began. She tilted her head and moved it back, to make eye contact, and he repeated what Anthea had told him about Mycroft's situation.

'Oh, my goodness, poor Mycroft!' she gasped. What can we do to help?'

'There are a number of things I can do. Some of them are not entirely legal but. please trust me, I will be very careful, OK?'

She did not feel overly reassured by his words but she knew better than to try to dissuade him from the course of action he had chosen to take. Mycroft was his only living relative, apart from William. If Mycroft really needed something doing, Sherlock would not say no, whatever it entailed. She tucked her head back under his chin, put her arm round him and hugged him close, with her cheek pressed against his chest, feeling his heart beat as it gradually slowed, along with his breathing, until he was asleep. She closed her eyes, too, and tried not to think about what new dangers the coming days might bring.

ooOoo

The bell rang early on Anthea's door, the next morning. She was sitting in her kitchen, in her dressing gown, enjoying her first cup of tea of the day. It was Agent Lovell.

'You need to come with me, Miss Smith. They have some questions for you,' he announced.

'Go and wait in the car. I'll be about half an hour,' she replied and shut the door. She was actually forty-five minutes but she wasn't counting.

Once inside the Whitehall building, she was taken down to the interrogation suite. She had never had cause to come down here before but, of course, she knew of its existence and she had been in similar places elsewhere, some a lot less hospitable. She was relieved of her coat and handbag and invited to sit on the chair occupied by Mycroft, the day before. Her interrogator was introduced to her as Mr Jones. She assumed it was not his real name, as indeed Miss Smith was not hers.

'Miss Smith, do you know what document we are concerned with here?' he asked.

'I don't know but I can guess. There is only one document that matched the criteria,' she replied.

'Can you describe the contact you had with this document?'

'Can you confirm which document we are discussing?' she asked.

'Can we assume that we both know which document we are discussing?' he countered.

'No, I don't think we can. I suppose we could play twenty questions and you could answer yes or no and, by that means, I could deduce which document we are discussing. Would you like to give that a go?'

'Miss Smith, this is a very serious situation. I don't find your flippancy terribly appropriate.'

'Mr Jones, this situation is ridiculous. If you wish to ask me questions about a specific document, you have to specify which document it is. Otherwise, we could be talking at cross purposes. I really don't understand why you are so reluctant to name names. We all work for the security service here and we all have high clearance, even the little men listening in behind the one-way mirror, back there. Why are you being so coy?'

'Yes, alright, Miss Smith, thank you,' Agent Jones replied.

'Please, describe to me your first day back at work after your holiday.'

'I arrived at work at about eight-thirty, came up to my office, booted up my pc, logged on and checked my emails. There were quite a lot, since I had been away for two weeks, but most of them had been cc'd to Ms Newton's PA, so had already been dealt with. Some of them were from Ms Newton's PA, telling me how he had dealt with the emails. At about nine o'clock, the diplomatic bag was delivered. I opened it, looked through the documents to see which ones were most urgent and put them to one side to take to the airport with me, to meet Mr Holmes, from the plane. I went into Mr Holmes' office, put the less urgent documents into his desk drawer and relocked it, then put the more urgent ones into his briefcase, which I then locked.'

'Which documents did you consider to be most urgent, Miss Smith?'

'There was one about possible terrorist activity in North Africa, with reference to British business interests, an intelligence report on the latest presidential edicts in North Korea and the finalised security arrangements for the PM's visit to Pakistan, next month.'

'What did you do next?'

'I locked Mr Holmes' office and took his briefcase downstairs, where I was met by the driver who took me to Heathrow. I waited in the private Arrivals lounge until Mr Holmes arrived, then I walked with him to the car and we came back to the office. He looked at the documents in his briefcase, on the way.' She paused for a moment, to collect her thoughts but Agent Jones interrupted.

'Where was the briefcase when you went into the airport?'

'It was in the car - in the boot, to be precise.'

So, you left it unattended?'

'No, I left it with the driver, a locked briefcase, locked in the boot. I kept the key to the briefcase.'

'Did the driver remain in the car for the entire time that you were away, in the airport?'

'No, I believe he left the car for a short period of time, when he collected Mr Holmes' luggage.'

'So the briefcase was left unattended?'

'So far as I am aware, it was left, locked, in a locked car, hidden from view, locked in the boot.'

'Where was the briefcase when you returned to the car?'

'It was on the floor, in the back, next to the back seat.'

'How did it get there?'

'I imagine that the driver moved it when he put Mr Holmes' luggage in the boot. That is the usual procedure.'

'So the driver was the only other person to handle the briefcase?'

'Yes, the locked briefcase, for which, I held the key.'

'Where did you go last night, Miss Smith?'

'You know where I went. You had me followed.'

'I'd like you to tell me where you went, please.'

'I went to the BFI, to see a film.'

'Who did you go with?'

'I went on my own. I met someone there.'

'What 'someone' was that?'

'It was John Watson, as if you didn't know.'

'How long have you been friends with John Watson?'

'I'm not friends with Dr Watson but I've known him for about five years. We met through Mr Holmes, through both Mr Holmes.'

'So you have been out socially with Dr Watson before?'

'No, I've never been out socially with Dr Watson, although he did ask me out once, the first time we met. I declined. We just happened to be at the same place at the same time. I saw him in the cinema and he seemed to be on his own. I was on my own, so I went and sat with him. We shared a bag of M&M's.'

'So it was entirely coincidental that you happened to meet Mycroft Holmes' brother's associate on the very day that Mr Holmes was suspended from duty and placed under house arrest?'

'I don't believe in coincidence. It just happened.'

'And what did you talk about, with Dr Watson, Miss Smith?'

'We didn't talk much at all. We were watching the film. We did talk a little bit about the film, afterwards, as he walked me to the road, to get a cab. It was a very good film.'

'Would you be prepared to take a polygraph test, Miss Smith?'

'Of course,' she replied, 'though I'm sure you must already know that it would be a waste of time. I was trained to pass a polygraph test.'

The agent sat and looked Anthea in the eyes for several moments.

'I think that will be all for today,' he said and stood up. 'You may return to your home, Miss Smith, and you are still under twenty-four hour surveillance.'

'Thank you, Agent Jones, but if I find that the cameras have been reactivated in my bedroom and bathroom, I will go and stay with a friend, where there will be no cameras at all.'

The door opened and Agent Lovell appeared with her coat and bag, which she took, and then followed him from the room.

ooOoo


	12. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Eleven**

Sherlock began his working day by returning to Baker Street. He needed to check his emails, to see if he'd had any replies since the night before.

On his arrival at 221b, he did a thorough check to see if anyone had been in the property since he had left it, the night before. With Mrs Hudson staying at their flat with Molly, it would have been tempting, perhaps, for someone from the security services to take the opportunity to install some surveillance equipment. His search, however, came up negative. He booted up his lap top and checked his Inbox. There were three replies.

One was from the hackers that Anthea had recommended. They were happy to assist in his enterprise but wished to fix a price before they began work. They also stated their terms – half the sum up front and half on completion, regardless of whether they uncovered anything significant. Due to their provenance, Sherlock accepted these terms and the price. He sent off the first payment, routed through a number of off-shore accounts, to confuse any attempts to track it. He would speak to Mycroft about reimbursement at some later date.

The second email was from Lestrade. He wanted feedback from Sherlock, following his meeting with the staff of the Commissary. He emailed back to say he would be at the Yard after lunch.

The third email was from Mycroft, to confirm that he would be at home and accepting visitors that morning. Sherlock replied to say he would be arriving mid-morning. He then shut down his lap top, locked up the flat and the house and caught a cab to Cadogan Square, Knightsbridge, to see his brother.

As the cab approached the building, Sherlock spotted the tech van, parked at the side of the road. There were a number of diplomatic residences in the square so Mycroft's would not be the only one under surveillance but it still irked Sherlock to think that his brother was being treated in this cavalier manner by the very government that he had served so faithfully for his entire adult life. He paid the cabby and walked up to the entrance to Mycroft's building. The commissionaire opened the door on Sherlock's ring. Recognising him from previous visits, the man greeted him, respectfully, and admitted him to the building. From there, he took the lift to Mycroft's floor and, on exiting the lift, crossed the corridor to Mycroft's door. His brother was already standing in the doorway, having been alerted to his arrival by the commissionaire. The two men nodded to one another and Mycroft stood to one side to admit his sibling to his home. Once inside, Sherlock walked into the sitting room and over to the window, to look down on the street below. It looked so quiet and peaceful down there, with people walking in the square, with dogs and baby carriages or just by themselves, but Sherlock knew that a fair few of those individuals were secret service operatives, on surveillance duty.

Mycroft walked in with a tea tray, which he placed on the occasional table, and began to serve tea for himself and his brother. The two men then sat down.

'So what's this all about?' Sherlock asked. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, in response.

'I mean, how come you are here at home and not in your office,' Sherlock elaborated.

'Well, you know how it is, brother, sometimes the watchers feel the need to turn their gaze inwards. This is one of those occasions,' Mycroft shrugged.

'But why gaze at you, of all people, with your service history? How can they possibly suspect you of anything untoward?' Sherlock could not contain his indignation.

'Circumstantial evidence, I'm afraid. They see what they want to see. Eventually, one hopes, they will either find the true culprit or, at least, realise they have the wrong suspect. Until then, I will be enjoying a great deal of leisure time. I might even catch up on my reading list. There are a number of books that I've been meaning to read for a long time, just never seemed to find the time.'

'But are they actually looking for another suspect or are they so convinced it's you?'

'I assume they will be exploring all lines of enquiry.'

'They would stand a better chance of succeeding if they had their best man on the job.'

'Why, brother, I never knew you cared! But, yes, that is the greatest irony.'

'Aren't you getting a bit stir-crazy, stuck in here, all day and night?'

'Not yet, but then this is the first day. But no amount of worrying about it is going to change the situation so I choose not to make that mistake.'

'Why don't you just tell them what you were doing in America, if that is their principal interest?'

'Because it's none of their business. It's no one's business but mine – not even yours, Sherlock, so don't even think of looking into that. I would not be pleased. It would be a shame to set back this new entente cordial that we seem to be enjoying.'

Mycroft's eyes burned with intensity, as he said this, but the primary emotion seemed to be desperation. Sherlock had never seen that look before and it rather scared him. He wasn't accustomed to seeing this vulnerable side to his brother. Mycroft was omnipotent. Whatever was going on, it was clearly something of a very personal nature. Being a fiercely private person himself, he had to respect his brother's wish for privacy in this, no matter how frustrating that might be.

'What can I do to help?' Sherlock asked, aware that their every word was being recorded, their every look and gesture analysed.

'Just carry on as you are, Sherlock. There is no reason for you to involve yourself any further in this matter. I appreciate your support. I wouldn't ask for anything more.'

So, Mycroft knew that Sherlock was already involved; he approved of what he was doing and thought he was on the right track. Business concluded, the brothers enjoyed a second cup of tea and talked about general topics until Sherlock rose to leave. They shook hands, formally, as they always did, as they always had. It was the Holmesian thing to do, restrained and unemotional, but, on this occasion, conveying a degree of solidarity the brothers had rarely felt before.

ooOoo

Anthea was deep in thought all the way back to her apartment building. The idea that had occurred to her during her interrogation had struck a deep chord. It was so improbable, it could just be possible. She wondered why she hadn't thought of it before. To confirm her suspicions, she needed to access her own email account in the department. Sherlock could do that, through the hackers she had recommended to him. She needed to pass this new information to him but she couldn't contact him directly. She would have to make further use of her new best friend, John Watson. She took out her mobile and sent a text:

'Hi, John. Thank you for a lovely evening. Perhaps we could meet again. I'm free tonight. There's a Pasolini film on at the BFI or maybe a meal? Anthea.' She hoped that he either had an understanding wife or he never left his mobile phone unattended.

ooOoo

Sherlock arrived at New Scotland Yard about twenty minutes after leaving his brother's flat. En route, he had received a text from DI Lestrade, saying that the PM report was in. He took a seat opposite the DI and waited for him to finish scanning the document. He thought he knew most of what would be in it, having paid close attention during the PM itself, but he was interested to hear the tox analysis. Lestrade paused on one particular piece of information.

'Ah-ha', he said, rather annoyingly, Sherlock thought,

'Flunitrazepam. Present in the bloodstream, along with alcohol, though not a lot of that. Well, that makes it all a lot clearer.' He looked at Sherlock. 'Date rape gone wrong, obviously. Looks like we've got the right man.'

Sherlock returned Lestrade's look, then spoke,

'You know, Inspector, one of the things I like about you is that you don't jump to conclusions based on half the evidence. Please, don't prove me wrong.'

'What do you mean? Rohypnol! She has Rohypnol in her bloodstream. That's the date rape drug, isn't it?'

'Just the fact that it's there doesn't prove how it got there, does it?' Sherlock declared.

'But she was having dinner with her ex-boyfriend. Maybe he wanted more than dinner and she wasn't so keen?' Lestrade countered.

'Yes, maybe. That is one possible explanation but not the only one and not the most likely, in my opinion.'

'OK, Einstein, let's hear your theory?' Lestrade replied, reminding himself why he consulted Sherlock Holmes, in the first place - because he saw possibilities that others never even imagined.

'First of all, I need to view the tape of your interview with the ex-fiancé.'

Lestrade shrugged and turned to his pc. He clicked a few keys and brought up the video archive form the Met network. He typed in yesterday's date, then scanned down the directory until he found the item he was looking for, clicked on that and swivelled the screen so that Sherlock could see it, too. He also switched on the speakers, so they could both here the audio track.

The picture on the screen resolved to show a young man, dressed in jeans and a tee shirt, sitting in an interview room. He looked pale and drawn and visibly upset. The other people present were DI Lestrade and DS Donovan. The man was being interviewed as a witness, not a suspect, and no solicitor was present.

'Mr Wright, can you tell us about what happened the last time you were with Miss Evans?' DS Donovan asked.

'We had dinner. She rang me up, when she came back from Ibiza, to say sorry for doing a runner. She said she got cold feet and just wanted to get a way for a while. She said she couldn't talk to me about it because she thought I might try to persuade her to change her mind and go ahead with the wedding. I wouldn't have, you know. To be honest, I was having a few second thoughts myself. I was beginning to think we'd rushed into things too soon. We'd only been together a year. I think we were in love with the idea of being in love – if you know what I mean. Anyway, when she disappeared and her family started to accuse me of doing her in, well, that was enough to put me off ever wanting to see her again – except to prove she was alive, of course.'

'So how did you come to be having dinner together?' Donovan prompted, trying to keep the witness focused on the subject of the woman's last night.

'She phoned me, to say sorry, like I said. I told her I wasn't angry with her any more – I was at first, obviously, but only because of her family accusing me and that. Anyway, she said could we just meet up and have a chat – for old times' sake. I told her about me and Heidi and she seemed a bit miffed. She said I'd gotten over her a bit quick. But I just explained how it happened and she seemed to be OK with that. Anyway, I said I'd have to ask Heidi if she was OK with us meeting up, like, you know. She was fine with that too. So I asked Heidi and it was her idea that we had the meal at the Commissary – partly for old times like but also, I think, so Heidi could keep an eye on us. I think she might have been a bit worried that I still had feelings for Elaine, although I told her I was well over her, you know.'

'So, did you pick Elaine up from her home or did you meet at the restaurant?' Donovan asked.

'Oh, we met at the Commissary. Ain't no way I was going nowhere near her parent's house! Not after what they threatened to do to me when they thought I'd killed her! So, we agreed to meet at the restaurant. She got there first, as it happens. When I got there, her and Heidi was sitting there, chatting away like they was old friends. Well, I suppose they was, really, since Heidi had been helping to organise the wedding reception. Anyway, when I got there, we had a glass of wine each and ordered out food. Elaine was paying – she said it was the least she could do, under the circumstances. She had the lamb – that was always her favourite. I had the grilled sea bass, seeing as how she was paying.' He paused, as though savouring the memory of the sea bass.

''So what happened after that?' Donovan prompted him, again.

'We had a good chat. She told me what she'd been doing, in Ibiza and that, and I told her what I'd been doing, with Heidi and that. Then she – that is, Elaine – she said, let's have a bottle of bubbly, between the three of us. She invited Heidi to come and join us for a toast. She poured the champers and we drunk the toast and then, after a few more minutes, she said she had to go. I said I'd come with her, put her in a cab, but she said no, she was going to meet some girlfriends up at The Angel and they was going on somewhere. So she paid the bill, got up and went. She looked a bit wobbly on her pins, you know, considering she's only had one glass of wine and one of champers. But, to be honest, I was kind of glad she'd gone cos I thought Heidi was getting a bit annoyed with her.'

'What made you think that, Mr Wright?'

'Well, when Elaine invited Heidi for the champers, she made a toast. It was the toast that upset Heidi. She said 'Here's to Heidi and Steve. Have fun with my leftovers, darling.' Well, that wasn't very nice, was it? But, you know, Elaine was always saying stuff like that. She was a bit of a gobby cow at times. But she didn't mean nothing by it. Anyway, after she went, Heidi said good riddance, and we finished the champers between us. I can't believe she's dead. I mean, how did that happen? She was fine when she left us – absolutely fine.'

'Yes, Mr Wright, I appreciate this is very upsetting but I just a few small points to iron out, if you don't mind.' Sgt Donovan went on to ask a few more questions, just to clarify different parts of the statement but then she concluded the interview and the screen went blank.

Sherlock had been watching the video intently, his hands held under his chin, in the prayer position. When it ended, he took a deep breath and asked to see the post mortem report.

'No recent sexual activity,' he commented.

'Doesn't mean he didn't try,' Lestrade retorted.

'Have you checked the CCTV from the restaurant, to see if she did leave on her own?' he asked.

'The cameras weren't working at the time. They only turn them on when they leave, apparently. They don't have them running when the restaurant is open. What did the new girlfriend have to say?' Lestrade enquired.

'Her story is pretty much the same as his, apart from the account of when the woman left. Heidi told John that Miss Evans went into the Ladies first and then left. She was in the loo for a long time, apparently. The waitress nearly went in to check that she was alright, but then she got busy and it slipped her mind. When she checked later, the woman was gone. So no one actually saw her leave, it would appear.' Sherlock was still very thoughtful. 'You haven't interviewed the waitress yet?' he asked.

'She's coming in this afternoon,' Lestrade informed him.

'Well, that should be interesting,' Sherlock concluded, then changed the subject. 'Have you found her handbag?' Lestrade shook his head.

'You need to look there, alongside the pontoons, between the restaurant and the steps to the side gate. I think you'll find it there.' He stood up.

'You're not staying for the girl's interview?' Lestrade asked.

'No, things to do. I can watch the video later, if need be.' With that, he left.

ooOoo

John was on his lunch break when he felt his phone vibrate in his back pocket. He had taken to keeping it on him, since Mary had become pregnant. He liked to be available, in case she might need him. So far, she hadn't. He took out the phone and read the text from Anthea, then immediately phoned Sherlock.

'Yes, John? What is sit?' Sherlock asked, sounding preoccupied.

'I've had a text from Anthea. She wants to meet again – another film or maybe a meal.'

'She must have some new information. Can you paste that message into an email and send it to me, John? Then text her back and give her a good reason for not meeting her.'

'What, like the fact that I'm married and my wife is four months pregnant?'

'Yes, that would do it. I might need your help again, with this body in the canal case. Are you free later?'

'Probably. Mary is still busy with her big case. So long as you feed me again.'

'Of course. I'll be in touch.' Sherlock rang off.

John Watson selected 'email' on his phone and sent the text to Sherlock. He composed a suitable reply for Anthea and sent it, then deleted both texts. He could have told Mary about his trip to the cinema but the least she knew about the cloak and dagger stuff surrounding Mycroft's situation, the better, he felt. He really did not want her involved in that, at all. Perhaps, when it was all over, he would come clean. He didn't like to keep secrets from his wife, no matter how good the reason.

ooOoo


	13. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Twelve**

Anthea walked across the Millennium Bridge and along the river, to the Southbank Centre. She took a seat at an outside table at the Riverfront restaurant, ordered a coffee and gazed around at the passing tourists and street performers. She was not a fan of street theatre. As a Londoner, it was almost compulsory to find them annoying. She just thought them noisy and intrusive. They got in the way, when she was trying to get places in a hurry. Today, however, she was quite glad to see them. They attracted a crowd and created a chaotic atmosphere. It was almost inevitable that the young homeless woman would bump into her table and spill her coffee. When it happened, she jumped up, to avoid the coffee running onto her skirt.

'I am so sorry, love!' the girl exclaimed. 'Oh, 'ere, let me 'elp you wiv tha'!' She grabbed a handful of paper napkins from the next table and began mopping up the spilled coffee.

'Mr 'Olmes sent me. 'E said you had some information,' she muttered. Anthea knew all about the Homeless Network. She had the information written on a napkin already.

'You've done enough already, thank you!' she snapped, throwing the screwed up napkin at the girl and pushing her away.

'Suit yer bloody self!' the girl retorted, palming the screwed up napkin, whilst throwing the wodge of coffee-soaked tissue on the table top, just as the waitress came out, with a cloth to clean up the spillage. On the appearance of the waitress, the homeless girl disappeared into the crowd.

'So sorry, madam,' the waitress apologised to Anthea. 'Would you like another cup, on the house?' Anthea accepted, graciously, and sat back down to admire the river view and watch the juggler who had attracted the convenient crowd.

Anna, the homeless girl, walked on along the South Bank to Hungerford Bridge, across to the Victoria Embankment and along to Embankment Station. She stood, just outside the station entrance, asking passers-by if they had any spare change. By the time Sherlock came by, she had made quite a bit of cash, so the £20 note that he gave her, in exchange for the screwed-up napkin was a bit of a bonus. The exchange was deftly executed, and then Sherlock continued on his way and Anna stayed for another half an hour, adding still further to her tally for the day.

ooOoo

Once past the station, Sherlock hailed a cab to take him back to Baker Street. He kept the screwed up napkin in his pocket until he was back in the flat, then smoothed it out on the coffee table and read the message. He then booted up his laptop and sent another email to the hackers. This would probably cost more money but it seemed like a good lead. If Anthea was right, this could be the breakthrough they were looking for.

It had been a long and busy day and it was far from over. Sherlock heard the front door open and close then the sound of John's familiar footsteps coming up the stairs. By the time his friend entered the sitting room, Sherlock already had his coat on and was looping his scarf around his neck.

'Oh, are we off?' John asked. 'Where are we going?'

'To speak to the dead woman's family. I want you to ask about her friends, find out who she was meeting, after she left the restaurant, get a general idea of the sort of person she was,' Sherlock explained, as they went down to the street and hailed a cab.

'Am I you again?' John enquired.

'Yes. People are more open with you,' Sherlock explained. John began to smile, at the rare compliment his friend had given him. 'They don't feel they have to make an effort to conceal things from you. They don't think you would suspect them of lying,' Sherlock concluded.

'Oh, great! So I'm a bumbling idiot, am I?' John exclaimed, realising there had been no compliment, after all. Sherlock looked at him, pursing his lips.

'You know that's not what I meant. You put people at their ease. They trust you. They always suspect me of trying to trip them up so they are too much on their guard, if I ask the questions. And I like to be able to watch them, read their body language. I can do that more easily when you are doing the talking, OK?' John conceded that perhaps a compliment had been intended, though clumsily executed, so he let the matter drop.

'If it's all the same, I'd rather be me. It feels weird pretending to be you,' John stated. Sherlock gave the idea some thought then shrugged, in agreement.

The cab pulled up outside the address, in Brockley, which was the Evans' family home. John led the way to the front door and rang the bell. After a short pause, a middle-aged man with a rather large beer belly and a stubbly chin opened the door and stared morosely at John and then Sherlock.

'Mr Evans?' John asked, with a friendly smile.

'Who's askin'?' came the rather abrupt response.

'My name is John Watson. I'm working with the police, looking into the death of your daughter…..' John began, offering his hand.

'Step daughter, actually, and if you're workin' **wiv** the police, does that mean you're **not** the police? And if that's righ', why do I 'ave t' talk t' ya?' the man challenged, belligerently.

'The police are consulting with me and my colleague. We're trying to find out how your step-daughter died. For that reason, I hope you will be willing to talk to me,' John explained, calmly, employing his best bedside manner.

'I can tell you 'ow she died. That bloody boyfriend killed 'er, that's 'ow,' the man declared, poking a finger into John's chest to emphasise every word. John looked down at the poking finger and Mr Evans withdrew it and folded his arms. It was clear he was not going to invite them in.

'We would really like to speak to some of your step-daughter's friends, particularly the ones she planned to meet up with, after the dinner, the other night,' John continued on track.

'She weren't plannin' t' meet up wiv no one after the dinner. That's a bleedin' lie! You talk t' Sara, that's Elaine's best mate. She lives next door but one, that way. They bin friends since Primary School. She'll tell ya all ya need t' know!' With that, Mr Evans stepped back into the hall way and slammed the door shut. John and Sherlock looked at one another.

'Grief affects people differently,' John commented.

'And some, not at all,' added Sherlock, as they retraced their steps back to the pavement and walked along to the house next door but one.

The young woman who answered this door, with puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks, owned to the name of Sara. John introduced himself again and, this time, they were invited in. They were led through to a small but quite neat family sitting room, furnished with a three piece suite and sporting a large TV set, in the corner, next to the chimney breast, which now held a rather elderly but still functioning gas fire. The girl seemed to be home alone. She offered to make tea but the two men declined, politely, preferring to get down to business. Sara invited them to sit on the sofa and she took one of the arm chairs.

'Mr Evans said you and Elaine were best friends?' John began.

'Yeah, we was,' she replied, in a croaky voice that testified to many hours of serious sobbing. 'When she disappeared the first time, I di'n't think she was dead. She never told me she was goin' but I sorta knew. She did say she was havin' second thoughts, y'know, about the weddin'.' She gave a long, shuddering sigh, then spoke again. 'When she come back, I think she'd changed 'er mind agin. She was well miffed when she found out Steve 'ad go' off wiv that weddin' planner woman.'

'Oh, really?' John commented. 'We were told she was fine with that.'

'No way! That's why she asked 'im to have dinner wiv 'er. She was 'opin' she could change 'is mind back agin. I think she did change 'is mind. I think that's why that woman killed 'er,' Sara spat out, then dissolved into more tears. John waited patiently until she recovered her composure, then said,

'Do you know who Elaine had arranged to meet after her meal with Mr Wright?'

'Mr Right, yeah, that was 'im! Oh, sorry, that was just a joke me an' Elaine used to 'ave between us. She weren't mee'in' nobody. She tol' me she was gonna ge' Steve into bed, if it were the last thing she done. She meant t' ge' 'im back. An' if she wan'ed some'ink, she would geddit. She was well determined, was Elaine.'

John looked toward Sherlock, who had remained silent through-out the conversation. He gave a slight nod, telling John that he could end the interview. John stood up, reached out to shake Sara's hand and thanked her for her help, expressed commiserations for her loss and then the two men left.

Walking up to the main road, to find a cab, Sherlock spoke at last.

'Well, I think that about wraps it up. All we need now is the evidence.'

'So you think the wedding planner did it?' John asked.

'No, John, of course not. Weren't you listening to what the girl said?' Sherlock declared, with a look of exasperation.

'Yes, I was listening and she said she thought the wedding planner woman did it,' John retorted, feeling unappreciated. He had, after all, given up his evening to assist in this enterprise.

'As ever, John, you see but you do not…..'

'Oh, alright, Mr Smart Arse, take your Patronising Hat off. I thought you'd grown out of that particular habit.'

Sherlock looked sideways at John, equally affronted.

'OK, I get it, you're not going to tell me what you observed and I only saw. That's fine. Let's go and eat. I'm starving.'

'That's good because Mrs Hudson is cooking one of her famous pies, by special request. We're eating in tonight.'

ooOoo

They arrived at 'the flat' - Sherlock still thought of it as 'Molly's flat' but knew she didn't like it when he called it that – to be greeted by Mrs Hudson, in an apron, in the middle of preparing supper. She hailed John like a long-lost son, and they both repaired to the kitchen for a good catch-up chat. Sherlock went straight to William's bathroom, where he knew Molly and his son would be, at this time in the evening. They were both surprised but delighted to see him. Kisses were exchanged, all round.

'Mrs H said you would be home for supper but I needed to see it to believe it. Have you solved the case?' Molly asked, as she sat back on the toilet seat, to allow Sherlock to take over bathing duties.

'Yes, case solved. It was pretty straight forward. All we need is the final piece of conclusive evidence. Without it, it could be difficult to prove,' he replied.

'What does Greg think?' she asked.

'Haven't spoken to him yet. It will wait until the morning, I'm sure. William, you've been playing on the rope swing again. And you've had another argument with Alya!'

'Yes, Daddy, but she started it,' William replied, before launching into his explanation of the altercation he had had with another child in his class. Molly had absolutely no idea how Sherlock could have known what his son had been up to at school but he clearly did. With an indulgent smile, she got up, ruffled both their hair and exited the bathroom, leaving the two of them to their conversation.

She entered the kitchen and greeted John with a peck on the cheek.

'Mary still working on her big case?' she asked.

John then began a detailed explanation of the intricacies of the libel action that Mary's chambers were currently engaged in, on behalf of a very high-profile client, the progress of which was reported daily, on the news bulletins and in the papers. John enjoyed seeing Mary on the TV, partly out of a sense of pride that she was the successful barrister whose opinion all the reporters sought but, also, because she looked so beautiful on camera. He had set his 'FreeSat' box to record all the news bulletins, so that he could watch them, end to end, when he got home. Mary hated seeing herself on screen, always commenting on how big her bum looked or some other non-existent physical defect. John would then remind her that it really didn't matter since, when they were out together, everyone would be looking at him, which would invariably result in a playful wrestling match and other forms of physical interaction.

Even as John was concluding his explanation of the case, his mobile rang and he saw it was Mary calling. He excused himself from Molly and Mrs H and walked into the sitting room to take the call. On returning, he announced that Mary had finished early and was on her way home, so he would not be staying to supper, after all.

'Oh, you should have told her to come here, John, there's more than enough to go around,' Molly declared.

'Thanks for the thought, Moll, but we've hardly seen each other since this case started so it will be good to have some one-to-one time, if you know what I mean,' he replied, with a cheeky wink. He kissed the two ladies goodbye, grabbed his coat and left.

Sherlock sat on William's bed, watching his son put his pj's on and listening to him chatter about his day, giving appropriate responses, as required.

'Mummy is feeling much better now, isn't she?' he declared.

'Yes, she does seem a lot better,' Sherlock confirmed.

'The baby likes his new shoes, now,' William nodded, sagely. Sherlock looked at the child, wondering where this little gem of jouvenile logic had come from.

'Does the baby have new shoes?' he asked, hoping to elicit an enlightening response.

'Yes. That's why Mummy was so poorly, because the baby didn't like his shoes,' William confirmed.

'Right, OK,' Sherlock agreed, realising that Molly would need to provide the answer to this puzzle. 'Which story would you like tonight?' he asked.

'This one, please, Daddy,' William said, choosing 'The Tiger Who Came to Tea.' The little boy wriggled into bed and Sherlock stretched out next to him, holding the book so they could both see the pages, and began to read.

ooOoo

Sherlock emerged from William's bedroom to find that John had gone home to Mary. He made a mental note that he still owed him supper for his evening's work. Molly and Mrs Hudson chatted together over the evening meal, whilst Sherlock picked at his food, thinking about Mycroft's situation and, most specifically, the information Anthea had given him that day. He wondered whether the powers-that-be had turned their searchlights in that direction. It seemed logical that they would, but when had logic ever played a part in other people's plans?

Supper over, the ladies shooed him out of the way, into the sitting room, whilst they sorted out the kitchen, then Mrs Hudson announced she was going to read in her room. She had already informed Molly that she would return to Baker Street the next day, as the mother-to-be seemed to be over the worst of the NVP. Molly, for her part, had decided to take one more day, to build up her energy levels, after a whole week without eating, and then return to work. She knew she had lost over half a stone, during that week, but she was not too concerned about that. It meant that the baby was taking what he or she needed from Molly's reserves, looking after Number One, like any self-respecting parasite would. Her twelve week scan was due in four days' time. That was an important milestone, in Molly's psyche. The first trimester was probably the most perilous for the developing foetus. That wasn't to say things couldn't still go wrong, but the risks were lower after that.

Sherlock was lying on the sofa, in his architypal thinking pose, when Molly came through from the kitchen. She perched on the edge of the seat, next to him, and he opened his eyes to look at her.

'Hello, you,' he murmured, 'what time is it? Where's Mrs H?'

'It's nine o'clock, or there abouts, and Mrs Hudson's gone to bed. I think she just wanted to give us some time alone,' Molly replied.

'She's a very perceptive woman, is Mrs Hudson,' he observed, reaching out to pull her down on top of him and capturing her lips with his, for a long moment.

'Hmmm, that's nice,' she sighed, when they broke apart. 'Isn't this against the rules, when you're working? What's the occasion?'

'Well, you've not been very kissable lately. I need to make up for lost time,' he whispered, gazing into her eyes, his usual laser-like glare softened with warmth and desire. Looping a stray tendril of hair behind her ear, he brushed her cheek with the tips of his fingers, before slipping his hand along her jaw to the back of her neck, to pull her in to a deeper, more passionate kiss. Molly pressed her body against him, feeling the irresistible attraction that his touch always held for her.

'Oh, god,' she breathed against his cheek. 'I can't believe we're snogging on the sofa. It feels really naughty, somehow.' He was too intent on nibbling her earlobe to reply.

'Sherlock, we can't do this here. What if Mrs Hudson comes in?' she gasped, as his lips began to move along her neck towards her collar bone. He stopped, suddenly, and sat up, sitting her up, too.

'Let's go to the bedroom, then,' he announced, holding her in his lap, with one arm around her waist and the other across her thigh.

'We need to wait until Mrs H is asleep. She might hear us,' Molly giggled.

'She's never heard us before,' Sherlock protested. 'Still, if you're worried, why don't we do your massage first, then she should be asleep.' Molly nodded in agreement and pushed herself upright.

'Oh, by the way,' Sherlock began, 'why does William think the baby is wearing shoes?'

'What? Oh… Oh, no!' Molly looked slightly alarmed, and proceeded to explain her attempts to explain to their young son why she had been feeling ill.

'Sounds like I've confused him even more,' she concluded. 'I need to put him straight, don't I?'

'Actually, I would leave things be, for now. He seems happy with the explanation. It doesn't really matter that he slightly misunderstood. The main thing is, he knows about the baby and he knows you're not actually ill. We can sort out the shoes business at some later date, don't you think?' he reasoned.

'OK, you're probably right. Maybe we should get one of those sex education books for children and read it to him,' Molly suggested.

'Maybe we should just show him the video of him being born,' Sherlock replied.

'Don't you think that would be a bit scary for him, all that huffing and puffing and moaning and groaning?' Molly said, doubtfully.

'We could edit it - tone down the soundtrack - that sort of thing,' he reasoned.

'Ok, maybe. Let's think about it a bit more, yes?'

By this time, they were in the bedroom, Sherlock had spread towels on the bed and Molly had undressed and lain down. Sherlock stripped down to his boxers, as he always did to perform this duty, to avoid getting the oil on his clothes. Molly watched him move around the room, feeling desire rekindle in her mind and body. She wondered whether she would be able to last out for the duration of the bio oil massage before succumbing to the over-whelming urge to ravage him that the mere sight of his body engendered in her. Only time would tell.

ooOoo

**Sorry this chapter has been a bit slow in coming. It has been difficult to write, to move the plot along without giving away too many clues. I hope you are all still on board! Thanks to everyone who has followed, faved or reviewed. You are very much appreciated!**


	14. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Thirteen**

Sherlock left the flat early next morning, dropping William at school on the way, then taking a cab to New Scotland Yard. On his arrival in DI Lestrade's department, he was greeted by an abnormally busy scene.

'Did I miss something?' he asked one of the younger team members, who only knew him in his capacity as an official consultant and were, consequently, more willing to share information with him.

'We've arrested the ex-fiancé and the new girlfriend for the murder of the woman in the canal. They're just being brought in,' DC Hughes explained.

'What? Why on earth has he done that?' Sherlock scoffed. 'Have you found the handbag?'

'No, sir, we haven't found the handbag yet. The divers are still looking,' replied Hughes, looking uncomfortable. Sherlock stalked through the department to Lestrade's office and barged straight in.

'Lestrade, why on earth have you arrested those two? They had nothing to do with it!' he barked. Lestrade looked up from the phone call he was making, holding up his hand for Sherlock to be quiet, then continued with the call. Sherlock stood with his left arm folded across his chest, flicking his pursed lips, impatiently, with the index finger of his right hand, while he waited for Lestrade to hang up. Eventually, he did, and turned to confront Sherlock.

'They are the only suspects we have. We're bringing them in for further questioning but everything seems to point towards them. What alternative explanation do you have?'

'It was her, the woman. She did it herself!' Sherlock declared.

'What? Are you telling me it was suicide, now?' Lestrade looked nonplussed.

'No, of course not. It was an accident. She didn't mean to take the Rohypnol. She intended it for him but she took it herself, by mistake,' he insisted.

'How on earth can you possibly know that?' Lestrade retorted.

'You have interviewed the boyfriend and the new girlfriend?' Sherlock prompted

'You know we have,' Lestrade growled, feeling irritated, as ever, by Sherlock's obtuse comments.

'Have you spoken to the friends and family of the dead woman?' he asked.

'They have been interviewed. We have their statements,' Lestrade confirmed.

'But you haven't found the missing handbag or the shoes,' Sherlock concluded.

'No, not yet. We're still looking for those but it's a big canal, they could be anywhere…'

'I told you exactly where they would be. Have you looked there yet?' Sherlock interrupted him.

'We are getting there. We are conducting a careful, systematic search of the canal and the basins. We can't just suddenly move to a different location,' Lestrade snapped.

'So you would rather waste time and money on a fruitless search in the wrong place? By the time you find the bag and the shoes, the evidence will be destroyed. The longer they stay in the water, the more corrupted the evidence will become.'

'What evidence, Sherlock? What the hell are you talking about?'

Sherlock took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly, mainly to calm himself. He then took another breath and said,

'Do you have the waitress's interview video?'

Lestrade nodded.

'Play it for me…please,' Sherlock added, as an after-thought. Lestrade brought up the video recording, on his PC, and both men sat down to watch it.

The scene was much the same as the one Sherlock had watched the day before, except it was Heidi giving the statement rather than Steve. Sgt Donovan was asking the questions again.

'Can you describe to me what happened on the evening that Miss Evans came to the restaurant, on the night she died?'

'Well, I was already there, workin', cos I start at six, yeah? Anyway, she gets there about seven-ish, although she 'adn't arranged to meet Steve til seven-thirty. We wasn't that busy, then, so she invited me to sit wiv 'er an' ave a chat. She starts goin' on about 'ow 'er an' Steve were made for each other an' 'ow 'e was the love of 'er life but tha' she understood tha' 'e would never 'ave 'er back, now, like, but tha' there would always be a special place in 'er 'eart for 'im. She was really pissin' me off, t' be honest, but, when Steve come, I di'n't wanta upse' 'im, so I made out we was just 'avin' a girlie chat.' She paused to take a sip of water, from the cup provided, and then continued.

'I was servin' 'em all night and she were all over 'im bu' he di'n't seem t' notice an' ev'ry time I went up to the table, he squeezed my 'and or patted my bum an' I could tell it was really pissin' 'er off, now. Then, when I was about to clear the table, she decides she'll order a bottle o' bubbly. So I goes off to ge' it and then she comes over all Miss La-de-da an says she'll serve it so I goes back to clearin' the table. So then she makes this shitty toast about me havin' fun wiv 'er left-overs, so I goes off in a bi' of a huff, wiv the dishes. When I come back, 'im 'n' 'er are doin' that thing with the glasses, where they link their arms while they drink, like they do at weddings. Tha' just about did it for me. I jus' wanted 'er to bugger off, then.' She paused again.

'And did she?' asked Sally Donovan.

'Not straight away but, after about ten minutes, she seemed to get a bit weird an' she said she 'add to go, said she was meetin' someone. She paid the bill but it took 'er two goes to put 'er pin number in an' she 'adn't 'ad tha' much to drink. Anyway, she wen' off t' the Ladies an' she was in there a while. I was thinkin' about goin' to see if she was OK but then I 'ad to serve someone an', by the time I got to check, she was gone. Me an' Steve finished the bubbly after I finished work, then we went 'ome.'

Lestrade closed down the link and turned to Sherlock, expectantly.

Sherlock inhaled deeply, then began to explain his deduction.

'When you interviewed the bridegroom, he told you that it was the dead girl's idea to have the meal, for old time's sake, to show there were 'no hard feelings' but he also said she was put out when she found out he was over her so quickly and going out with the wedding planner, so there were hard feelings, after all. Her best friend confirmed that she was not happy about the new relationship and wanted to get the boyfriend back – although that's not exactly what the girl said. What she actually said was that she wanted to get him into bed before the night was over. She didn't really want him, she just didn't want the other woman to have him. She was annoyed that he apparently got over her so quickly. It was a blow to her pride so she wanted to make trouble between them. She was not the sort of person to be thwarted. Her best friend told us that'

'She agreed to have the meal at the Commissary, where the new girlfriend worked, and she was very chummy with the wedding planner but her main objective was to split up the ex-boyfriend and his new girl. She got there early so she could start sowing the seeds of doubt into the girlfriend's mind. She offered to pay for the meal but she didn't drink much – she wanted to keep her wits about her. She then spent the whole evening flirting with the boyfriend, but to no avail, it would seem. By the end of the meal, when all else had failed, she decided to use the last resort – the Rohypnol – which she had brought along, just in case. If she got him into bed, that might be enough to split up the new couple. If she could get him woozy, she could offer to take him home and engineer getting him into bed. The girlfriend was working, so she would not be in any position to take him home herself. Miss Evans ordered the champagne – Rohypnol dissolves more quickly and less noticeably in sparkling drinks – and she poured it into the glasses, so she had the best opportunity to spike the boyfriend's drink. But something went wrong. She ended up drinking the spiked drink herself.'

'I suspect that, when the waitress was clearing the table, she somehow moved the glasses and got them mixed up. The dead woman had already put the tablet into one of the glasses but didn't notice they'd been swapped – probably too busy making a big show of opening the champagne, to distract attention from the pill in the glass.'

'The drug would begin to take effect after about ten minutes. As soon as she realises the error, she has to get away. She can't look stupid in front of the ex-boyfriend and her new rival, so she makes up the excuse of meeting someone afterwards – her friend insists she had not planned to meet anyone and so did her step-father. She pays the bill and takes herself off to the Ladies, I imagine to make herself sick and try to get rid of some of the Rohypnol, but it's already in her bloodstream. She then decides to leave by the side gate, which is the least conspicuous exit. It's quite dark along the pontoons, so likely no one would notice her leaving that way. She takes off her shoes, carrying them in her hand, because her balance is not good by now - the gravel found stuck between her toes, I believe, will match the gravel scattered on the pontoons, left behind by passing feet - but the pontoons are floating on the water and they move as she walks. She totters to the edge, loses her balance and falls into the canal. It's too dark and too far away from the restaurant for anyone to see or hear her fall. She's too over-come by the drug to save herself and she drowns.'

'Her body is light, it floats and, during the course of the night, it gets washed down the canal by the bow waves of passing narrow boats. I've checked the lock records. There were eleven boats passed along the canal in that direction that night – more than enough to move the body along to the basin. It was inevitable that she would end up in the Wenlock Basin – it's the first one you come to, in that direction, from the Commissary. Her bag and shoes, however, I suspect, sank or maybe got caught in something but they did not wash down. They are right there, where she fell in, and, inside her bag, you will find the blister pack that contained the Rohypnol that she brought to the restaurant. And, if you manage to get it out of the water before too much longer, it will only have one set of prints on it – hers.'

He inhaled again, and sat glaring at the Detective Inspector, who, after taking a moment to catch up with the train of thought, picked up the phone and made a call to the leader of diving team to tell them to concentrate their search for the bag and shoes along the length of the pontoons, where Sherlock had indicated, the day before. He then made an internal call to Donovan, telling her to process and then bail the two suspects and send them home, pending the forensic examination of the contents of the bag which, he was fairly certain, would be found quite soon. He then rang Anderson and told him to get his Forensics team down to the pontoons to take gravel samples and examine the edges for signs of anyone falling in or attempting to get out. At last, he looked at Sherlock and said,

'Anything else?'

'No, he replied, 'I think that should cover it.'

ooOoo

Sherlock left the Yard and took a cab to Baker Street. He wanted to check his emails, to see if he had any replies from the hackers Anthea had recommended. On arrival at 221, he noted that Mrs Hudson was back in her flat – as evidenced by the post collected from the hall table and the faint strains of music to be heard emanating from her flat. Classic FM, Sherlock correctly identified the radio station - middle of the road classical music for easy listening and equally middle of the road DJ patter. Given the option, he was a Radio 3 or 4 man, but mostly he preferred to make his own soundtrack. He climbed the stairs to his flat and unlocked the door, completing his quick scan to see if anything had been disturbed since he was last here. Mrs Hudson had been in – but she had a key – and removed the old milk from the fridge, replacing it with a new one. There was nothing to indicate any other intrusion.

Sherlock put on the kettle and dropped a teabag into a mug, then walked across to the desk, unlocked the drawer, took out his laptop and booted it up, then went back to make the tea. Carrying the mug over to his desk, he sat down and opened up his email account. His eyes lit up, immediately, with interest. There were two emails from the hackers, both with attachments. He opened the first and largest.

It was a bundle of bank records and other financial documents belonging to various members of the Home Office staff, including the Home Secretary himself. It would take him a long time to scan through all this information. He wondered if there was any way for Anthea to lend a hand but dismissed this as being too risky. She could not be seen to be involved in this, should they be caught. He certainly couldn't ask John to get involved, either. He would be shocked and horrified that Sherlock was even contemplating hacking a government network, let alone that he had actually done it. He would just have to put in the hours.

He opened the second email and its attachment. This was a series of emails, also from the staff of the Home Office. These were immediately marked as significant in his mind, since they had been retrieved following deletion. He began to read them, looking for anything that might appear suspicious or incriminating. After more than an hour of this, he pushed away from the desk, having just discovered several minor political scandals and a few secret assignations between medium-profile government members but nothing that suggested any involvement in espionage or treason. What a dull and boring crowd these people were. Give him a Cambridge Four, any day. Philby and company, they would have been a worthy bunch of adversaries, something to get one's teeth into. He was just about to get up and make another cup of tea when the Inbox showed (1). He closed down the file he's been reading and saw he had another communication from the hackers, with yet another attachment. The text in the body of the email read:

'This one is complimentary, with apologies for the pointless drivel in the other two.' Sherlock gave a wry smile. Whoever these hackers were, they were clearly people of his own ilk. He opened the attachment. It was not only Anthea's email record for the period of time covering Mycroft's 'holiday' and the two weeks preceding and following, but also the record of her opposite number, in the Department Deputy's office. He scanned through them, quickly, looking for the one that Anthea had alluded to. And there it was – the email from the Home Secretary, stating that the document containing the approved security arrangements for the PM's forth-coming visit to Pakistan would be sent in the dispatch case on the morning of Mycroft's return. This email had been sent to Anthea but cc'd to the Deputy's PA – quite unnecessarily, in fact, since the document was not intended for anyone but Mycroft, that being the reason it had been withheld, in the first place. So another person knew that the plans were arriving in the office that day. Sherlock sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers under his chin. First things first, he needed background data on Mr James Mottram, PA to Charlotte Newton, Deputy Head of Department.

He took the most direct route and typed the name into Google. In seconds, a complete biography was laid out before him. He wondered, momentarily, what people did before they had Google and Wikipedia and all those other marvellous devises but he didn't linger long on that diversion. He had data to process.

ooOoo

Mycroft picked up the phone in his sitting room and dialled a very familiar number. It was answered almost immediately by an equally familiar voice.

'Dame Joan, always a pleasure, ma'am,' he drawled.

'I was wondering how long it would take for you to become bored, Mycroft,' the Director-General of MI5 responded. 'How may I be of service?'

'Well, ma'am, you could admit that someone has made a terrible error and reinstate me to my post. However, since I am fairly certain that is unlikely, at present, I must beg your forbearance and request a change of scenery. I have an estate to run at home and, since my employer has little use for me at the moment, I would rather like to go there and do something useful. The house and grounds have already been risk assessed so it would be a small matter to transfer your security operation to that location,' Mycroft reasoned.

'The risk assessment was based upon stopping people getting in, Mycroft, not out,' the D-G reminded him.

'Why would I wish to get out? It is my home, as I have just pointed out, and I have no reason to try to make any sort of 'bid for freedom'. I am an innocent man – with regard to the current situation, at least,' he added.

The Head of the British Secret Service took a moment or two, for the sake of protocol, rather than anything else, to consider her decision, then told Mycroft he would be transferred to the family home in Hertfordshire before the end of the day. He asked her permission to alert his house staff and she agreed. Closing that call, he dialled the Butler's Pantry, at home and heard his man, Andrew, answer the phone at the other end.

'Andrew, I will be home for supper. Please advise Cook and also Mrs Willis.'

'Of course, sir. I will advise them immediately. Will there be any other guests, sir?'

'Indeed there will be, Andrew, six, in fact. They will need staff accommodation and, of course, they will be staying for meals.'

'Of course, sir, I will see to it that all their needs are catered for,' replied Andrew. Mycroft thanked him and hung up. He breathed a long sigh of relief. The inactivity was beginning to get to him. He was not so vulnerable to boredom as his brother but doing nothing was not a Holmesian trait. At least, at home, he could be getting on with something productive and there would be far more opportunities to slip the net and communicate with the outside world. He had been out of touch for three days and he was anxious for information.

ooOoo


	15. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Fourteen**

Having read what Google had to say about James Mottram, Sherlock's interest was only whetted. From a good family, educated at Charterhouse School and Trinity Hall, Cambridge, he had belonged to all the right clubs and societies for an ambitious, budding diplomat. These were the public facts but Sherlock needed to know the more intimate details. Being PA to a Deputy Head of Department seemed a bit of a career cul-de-sac, in Sherlock's opinion, especially at his age – early forties – Mycroft's age, in fact. Maybe the man was feeling a little unappreciated and decided to build his part? Or perhaps he just wanted to take the money and run. How much might these top secret plans be worth, to the right buyer? Sherlock sent a return email to the hackers, asking for anything and everything they could get on this man – bank accounts, business interests, pastimes, pleasures, friends and acquaintances, the number of his library card, his favourite colour for socks. He needed a way in and this, he felt, was his best chance of finding it. He received a reply almost immediately, quoting a price for this new research. He replied:

'Accept. Proceed,' and sent half the new fee to the account he'd used before, then, leaning back in his chair, he stretched his shoulder and back muscles, which were beginning to feel cramped from sitting at the desk for so long. He had no idea how long the new search would take, so he stood and walked over to the sofa. He lay down and closed his eyes, in order to think, but was almost immediately disturbed by the ringing of his phone. He took it out of his jacket pocket and checked the caller ID. It was Lestrade. He answered,

'Yes?'

'Sherlock, we found the bag and the shoes. They were exactly where you said they would be. And, you were right. The Rohypnol blister pack was in her bag, with three more tablets still intact. Unfortunately, the prints were damaged by the water – unreadable…' Lestrade sounded quite despondent.

'You might want to check her Internet history,' Sherlock advised.

'What…?' Lestrade queried.

'Well, she must have bought them from somewhere. The most likely source would be online, don't you think?' he explained.

'Oh, of course, of course! Thank you! Good idea!' Lestrade gushed, clearly relieved to have another avenue to explore, when everything had looked so bleak.

'I take it you will be searching her home, too?' Sherlock asked.

'Will we?' asked the DI.

'She might have more, at home, too, might she not?' he suggested.

'That she might!' Lestrade agreed. 'I must be losing my touch. This is basic stuff, really,' he muttered. Sometimes, he felt spread a bit too thin.

'Well, if that's all you wanted, I am rather busy on another case, at the moment,' Sherlock stated, bluntly, a little offended by the 'basic stuff' comment. It's all basic, once someone else has pointed it out to one, he thought.

'Oh, yes, thank you, Sherlock. Really, really, much obliged,' Lestrade replied, redeeming himself, slightly, in Sherlock's opinion. They both shut off the call.

Sherlock put his phone back in his jacket pocket, placed his hands in the prayer position, under his chin, and closed his eyes again. He had no idea how long he had lain like that, absorbed in his thoughts, but he was roused by the sound of the email alert, on his laptop. He rolled off the sofa and strode across to the desk. The email was from the hackers and contained a large attachment. He sat at the desk, opened the files, one by one, and read them, with a growing sense of something akin to excitement. James Mottram had some interesting friends and frequented some equally interesting places. For a PA – albeit with a long career in the diplomatic corps – he was surprisingly well connected. One would have imagined that such a well-placed individual, who was, at least in his younger days, fairly ambitious, would have progressed further than his current position. Sherlock wondered what could have happened to curtail the meteoric rise that had seemed so inevitable, in the early days. Whatever it was, there was nothing in this batch of files to give any clue. Sherlock opened the last file – his email account – and began to read through the contents of the man's personal correspondence. The more he read, the more something niggled at the edges of his consciousness.

Eventually, it became so insistent, it was just too distracting. He closed the file, snapped shut the lid of his laptop, got up from the desk and stalked across to the window, picking up his violin and bow from his chair, on the way. He hadn't played for over a week, for one reason or another, and he savoured the comfortable feel of the instrument in his hand. It grounded him, centred him, gave him a focus. Raising his left arm and rotating his wrist, he slotted the body of the violin under his jaw and settled his chin into the chinrest. Again, he paused to enjoy the familiar sensation of the smooth, lacquered wood against his collarbone. Raising the bow, he poised it, momentarily, just above the E string, not even thinking about what he was going to play, then allowed his mind to switch to automatic pilot and began to review all the information he had received via the hackers, letting his thoughts shift from one snippet to another without any conscious guidance.

As his attention flipped from one info-bite to the next and then on, to others, muscle memory took control of his body and he began to play Bach's Partita in D minor, one of his favourite pieces for as long as he could remember. The jarring, jagged nature of the melody – if it could even be called such a thing – reflected and complimented the sharp, staccato quality of his thoughts as they jumped back and forth from item to item, making intuitive links between individuals, homing in on a turn of phrase that occurred and then was repeated somewhere else, high-lighting disparate references that seemed to resonate with one another, across the cognitive panorama of all the files he had viewed in the preceding few hours. Oblivious to his physical environment, he was held suspended in the sensory loop created by the music and the physical effort required to produce the sounds themselves, as his thoughts were shuffled, cut and shuffled again, until the process suddenly came to an abrupt halt and he looked through his mind's eye at the metaphorical hand he had dealt. Suddenly, it was all so crystal clear.

He stopped playing, abruptly, the bow almost leaping away from the strings, with the physical shock of ceasing. He stood, stock-still, staring out of the window but seeing nothing but the image in his head. And to think he had almost missed it, almost dismissed it as the inane online chatter of people who had nothing better to do with their time! All those trivial phrases – Twitter-speak – banal phrases that were used by thousands of people, every day, but amongst this group, they carried hidden meaning. It was a code! It was just like the one that he and Mycroft had used themselves, but with a different code book. There was something very sinister going on here and it went much further than the leaked security plans. He needed to get all this information to his brother. Mycroft would know who to go to in order to crack this code. But who to trust? There was the rub. This conspiracy was very deeply embedded within the corridors of power and influence. His sibling had clearly made some very powerful enemies and they had all decided to unite against him. This was a good old-fashioned political coup.

Sherlock replaced the violin and bow back on his chair and moved over to the desk. He opened a drawer and took out a pen drive. Fitting it into the socket on the side of his laptop, he downloaded all the files he had received from the hackers, and put the pen drive into his jacket pocket. He then erased the files from his hard drive, shut down his laptop and locked it away in the desk drawer. He took out his phone and opened the 'Find my Phone' app. He touched the icon for Mycroft. After a brief pause, the map came up on the screen and a green pin blinked – in Hertfordshire. So, they'd allowed him to go home. Good. It would be much easier to have this conversation in that environment than in the flat in Cadogan Square. He dialled Mycroft's number.

'Hello, brother. Twice in two days? To what do I owe the pleasure?' Mycroft's bored overtones belied his delight in the fact that Sherlock clearly had information to divulge.

'I thought you might be bored, stuck in those four walls. I was wondering if you would care for a little company for the evening?' Sherlock replied.

'I have a better idea. Why don't you bring the family, for the weekend? I'm on the estate and you know how William loves it here,' Mycroft suggested. Sherlock had forgotten it was Friday. He rarely cared which day of the week it was. It seldom mattered, since everyday was a working day, if there was work to be done.

'I'm sure Molly and William would love a weekend in the country. Thank you! We'll come in the morning, if you like.'

'Perfect. I'll send the car. Ten o'clock suit you?'

'Very well._'_ Sherlock hung up.

He looked at his watch. It was much later than he thought. He needed to get home. Molly was on her own with William and, although she was feeling better, she was still not completely over the NVP. He turned off the lamps and the fire and left, taking his coat from the back of the door on his way out and locking up behind him. Walking down the stairs to the hall, he heard Mrs Hudson's TV, through two doors, as some excessively cheerful game show host blathered on, to raucous laughter and enthusiastic applause from the equally excited audience. He didn't bother to knock or call goodnight. Chances were, she was already sound asleep in her armchair, beside the fire. He let himself out through the front door, already looking up the road for the yellow 'For Hire' sign of a cab, as he stepped down onto the pavement.

'Mr Holmes?' The voice came so suddenly and from so close behind, it startled him, caught him off guard. As he began to turn toward the speaker, he felt something touch his shoulder, through his thick coat and his jacket, then his body was gripped by violent convulsions and he lost all conscious thought, only experiencing extreme pain throughout his entire being. He lost control of his limbs and dropped to the floor, where his muscles continued to contract reflexively, but he felt paralysed, unable to move or articulate speech. He was aware, despite his half-conscious state, of someone, more than one someone, going through his pockets, frisking his body, taking out his phone, his wallet, his keys. Then he heard sounds – traffic, someone shouting, running feet, someone bending over him, touching his shoulder, asking him if he could hear them. He recognised the voice. It was one of the staff from the café, next door. He still couldn't co-ordinate his movement or formulate words. He lay on the pavement, feeling physically drained of all energy, allowing the chaos to ensue around him, whilst a small part of his brain registered the fact that he had been tasered.

ooOoo

By the time the police arrived, he was sitting in the back of the ambulance, draped in the ubiquitous, orange, NHS shock blanket, holding his head in his hand and resisting a strong urge to vomit, taking occasional sips from a bottle of water that had been provided – against medical advice – by the young man from the café, who stood outside the ambulance, explaining to the paramedics what he had seen happen to their casualty. The two uniformed constables, who had been summoned by the 112 call, approached the ambulance, asking what had happened. The café man immediately began his story again, as one of the officers took down notes in his little book. The other climbed up into the ambulance, to speak to Sherlock.

'I'm absolutely fine, really. I don't need to go to hospital,' Sherlock said, for the umpteenth time, to the paramedic.

'Sir, if you've been tasered, you should at least have an ECG, to make sure your heart is not suffering dysrhythmia. It must have been very high voltage, to incapacitate you so completely. You may have skin burns too. You really should let us take you in for a once over,' the woman in the paramedics jumpsuit insisted.

'I have a friend who's a doctor. I'll ring him…oh, they took my phone,' he groaned.

'No, they didn't, sir. They dropped everything when the men came running out of the café. You were very lucky. Someone saw you being mugged and the staff and half the customers came running out to help you,' the paramedic explained.

'Really, did they? That was very….yes, very….And my wallet, did they drop that too? And my keys?' Sherlock asked, still a little confused but also distracted by the intense pain behind his eyes. He felt as though his eyeballs were about to explode.

'Look, sir, I really think you should do as the lady says and go to hospital,' the PC advised and was just about to back up that advice with further words of wisdom when another voice interrupted him.

'It's alright, constable, I'll handle this.' The PC looked round to see DI Lestrade, from the Serious Crimes Unit, standing at the foot of the ambulance steps. He was rather surprised to see such a high ranking officer attending a mugging but he acknowledged his superior and stepped down from the vehicle. Lestrade climbed up to take his place, turning to the ambulance woman, and saying,

'Can you give us a moment?' The woman nodded and climbed out of the vehicle. Greg Lestrade sat sown on the treatment couch, next to Sherlock, explained that he'd been alerted about the call by Despatch, and asked what happened.

'I was just leaving the house when someone came up behind me and said my name; as I turned round, they tasered me. While I was down, they frisked me but they didn't actually take anything…. Oh, god, hold on a….' He felt the inside pocket of his jacket, looking for the pen drive. It wasn't there. It was gone. He closed his eyes, at the dawn of realisation. This was no random mugging. They had come specifically for the pen drive. They knew he had it on him and they were able to mobilise quickly enough to make sure they caught him leaving the flat. But – worst of all - they must have been watching him. They must have cameras in the flat but, for how long, he did not know.

ooOoo

**I'm going to be away for a week or two, so won't be updating for a while, but will be back at my laptop again at the beginning of April. Many thanks to all my loyal readers. You have no idea how much I appreciate your support.**


	16. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Fifteen**

'I need to call Mycroft,' Sherlock slurred. 'Where's my phone?' He made to get up from the treatment couch but was immediately overtaken by an intense bout of shaking. He slumped forward and would have tipped onto the floor of the ambulance if DI Lestrade had not caught him and pushed him back onto the couch, calling for the paramedics at the same time. Both medical personnel climbed back into the ambulance and, with seasoned efficiency, placed Sherlock into the recovery position on the treatment couch.

'He's going into shock, sir,' the lady said to Lestrade. 'We need to get him to hospital immediately.' The DI nodded in agreement and advised them that he would follow in his unmarked car. He was about to leave the ambulance when Sherlock spoke.

'Greg…get my laptop….in the drawer….in my desk. Don't leave it in the flat. Don't let them take it.' Lestrade was shocked, both by the frailty of the consulting detective's voice and by his use of the name 'Greg'. Sherlock never called him by his first name.

'Get my keys…out there…..somewhere…' he continued, with an audible tremor and barely above a whisper.

'Yes, OK, mate. Don't worry,' Lestrade reassured him.

'Phone Mycroft….tell him…..' the voice trailed off completely.

'Sir, we really have to go at once,' the paramedic insisted. The driver was already starting the engine, Sherlock was strapped securely to the couch and the lady paramedic was practically pushing Lestrade out of the ambulance. He stepped down onto the pavement, she closed the back doors and the ambulance drove away, blue lights flashing and siren wailing. The waiter from the café approached the DI, holding out Sherlock's phone, wallet and keys.

'Here, officer,' he said. 'The muggers dropped them.' Lestrade thanked him and turned to the two PC's, who had finished taking names and addresses from the witnesses and jotting down rudimentary statements.

'Can you file your reports back at your division and cc me in, please?' he asked them. They nodded in acquiescence and returned to their patrol car. Lestrade used Sherlock's key to gain access to 221 Baker Street. He climbed the stairs, two at a time, and unlocked the door to the flat. Crossing to the desk, he tried to open the desk drawer but found it locked. He used the small, brass key, on the key ring, to unlock the drawer and found the laptop inside. Taking it out, he relocked the drawer, locked up the flat and went back to his car. He took out his own mobile and dialled Mycroft's number.

'Inspector? What a pleasant surprise,' Mycroft greeted him.

'Not so pleasant, I'm afraid, sir. Your brother has been mugged outside his flat in Baker Street. He's been taken to hospital – St Mary's, I understand. Someone tasered him and it was a very powerful Taser, much more so than the ones we use.'

'I will be there as soon as possible, Inspector Lestrade. Thank you for informing me. Is Molly aware?' Mycroft replied. Lestrade advised him that she was not. Mycroft said he would speak to her, and hung up. He walked to the door of his study and opened it to address the agent sitting outside.

'I need to go back to London. It's a family emergency. I will clear it with your boss and we will take my car.' He then dialled Dame Joan's number and spoke to her, as he walked through the house, towards the Butler's Pantry, to ask Andrew to advise the chauffeur to bring the car to the front door.

ooOoo

Greg Lestrade pulled up outside the A and E Department at St Mary's Hospital and was just getting out of his car when Sherlock's phone rang, in his pocket. He took it out. It was Molly's picture on the screen.

'Hi, Molly, it's Greg here,' he began.

'Greg? Mycroft rang me. What happened?' She was upset.

'I don't have all the details, Moll, but I don't think it was a random mugging. I think they took something connected with the case he's working on at the moment.'

'Mycroft said they tasered him,' she said, with a rising inflection, hoping for a negative response.

'Yes, I'm afraid they did. They took him by surprise, as he was leaving the house. I'm just at the hospital, now. Can I ring you back, as soon as I have something concrete?' he suggested.

'Yes, of course. I hope John's on duty,' she replied, said goodbye and hung up.

Lestrade entered the department through the main doors and approached the reception desk, showing his warrant card.

'I'm here to see Mr Holmes, brought in by ambulance after being mugged?' he explained. The receptionist indicated for him to go through to the treatment area and buzzed him in, through the security door. Once in the treatment area, Lestrade looked round for someone to direct him to where he needed to go. He caught the eye of a passing nurse, showed his card again and asked where Sherlock was being treated. The nurse took him to one of the cubicles. Sherlock was lying on the gurney, eyes closed, looking pale. His shirt was unbuttoned and he had a number of sensors attached to his chest, by adhesive patches, with wires running from them to a machine on a trolley, to one side of the gurney. As Lestrade entered the cubicle, Sherlock opened his eyes.

'Did you get my laptop?' he asked, urgently.

'Yes, I di…' Lestrade began.

'Where is it?' Sherlock interrupted.

'It's locked in the boot of my car. Sherlock, what's this all about? What are you mixed up in?'

'Does Mycroft know what happened?' Sherlock demanded, ignoring Lestrade's questions.

'I rang him. He's on his way. Are you going to tell me what's going on?'

'Molly! Does she know I'm here?'

'Yes, Mycroft told her. I said I'd ring her as soon as I know what's happening. I'm asking you again, Sherlock, what the hell is this all about?'

'I can't tell you. It's something I'm working on for Mycroft.' Sherlock thought for a moment, then went on, in a more conciliatory tone.

'I had some very sensitive information on a pen drive. I was going to give it to my brother tomorrow. Someone didn't want me to do that. My flat must be bugged or they couldn't have known I had the pen drive. The information is on my laptop. I deleted it but, of course, deleted information can still be retrieved, if you know how. And Mycroft knows people who know how. I need to get out of here.'

'What's that machine doing?' Lestrade asked, to change the subject from talk of 'getting out'.

'It's an ECG machine. They're checking to see if I have dysrhythmia. The electric shock I received might have disrupted the natural rhythm of my heart. They used one of those illegal stun guns, the really powerful ones. It was rather like being hit by a train. I'm just glad I didn't have a full bladder. That would have been deeply distressing,' he added, wryly. 'Do you have my phone?' he asked. Lestrade nodded and gave him his phone, wallet and keys. He dialled Molly's number and she picked up straight away.

'I'm alright,' he said, before she could even ask. 'Really, I am. They brought me here as a precaution. I'm sure they'll let me leave, just as soon as this ECG is complete.'

Lestrade looked at the floor, slightly embarrassed to be eavesdropping on this exchange between his two friends. He stood up and walked out through the curtain, to give them some privacy, just in time to see Mycroft striding through the treatment area, with a strange man following behind. The older Holmes brother greeted the DI with a handshake and asked about his younger brother's condition.

'I haven't had the official medical opinion but he says he's fine,' Lestrade answered.

'Yes, he always does,' replied Mycroft, 'I think I'd prefer a more professional evaluation.'

Mycroft walked into the cubicle and gave his brother an appraising look. Sherlock finished his call to Molly, assuring her that he would be home soon, and closed his phone.

'Baker Street is bugged,' he stated bluntly, 'and they must be organised, to have someone outside with a Taser so quickly. They obviously know we're on to them.'

Mycroft held up a hand to warn Sherlock not to speak so openly. He then took out his phone and tapped out a text to Molly, which he showed to Sherlock before sending it. It read:

'Pack a weekend case for you, William and Sherlock. My driver will pick you up within the hour and take you to Hertfordshire.'

Sherlock read it and nodded, then Mycroft sent it. He then rang his butler and told him to expect the whole family that evening.

The ECG machine gave a sustained beep, to indicate that it had completed its task. A few moments later, a nurse practitioner came into the cubicle, to check the results.

'Well, Mr Holmes,' she said, 'I'm pleased to tell you that your heart is working perfectly. It is an absolute pleasure to look at a read-out like yours, compared to the ones we usually get here.'

'Does that mean I can go?' Sherlock asked, beginning to peel the adhesive patches off his chest, as he spoke. The nurse walked over to the bedside and began to disconnect the wires from the patches.

'Yes, I don't see why not. Your vital signs are all normal – well, reasonably normal – so I have no qualms about discharging you. But just take things a bit easy for a day or two, OK? Your body has had quite a shock – if you'll excuse the pun – and you may experience some after-effects, in the form of muscle spasms, over the next forty-eight hours. I can give you some muscle relaxant medication to help with that, if you like.'

Sherlock swung his legs off the gurney and began to button up his shirt.

'No, thank you, I'd rather not,' he replied. The nurse nodded and smiled at both brothers in turn, then moved on to her next patient. On her way out of the cubicle, she passed Lestrade, coming in.

'I need my laptop, Lestrade,' Sherlock stated, whilst pushing his feet into his shoes and putting his jacket on. Picking up his coat and scarf, he walked out of the treatment area, with Lestrade, Mycroft and the minder following on behind. Once outside on the pavement, he stopped and looked around.

'I'm parked just there. I'll go and get it,' the DI advised and walked off towards his car. Mycroft's car glided to a halt in front of the main doors to A and E, next to the remaining three men. Mycroft got into the back seat whilst Sherlock waited on the pavement for his laptop. As Lestrade returned and handed it over, he muttered,

'I do hope there is nothing illegal in there, for your sake as well as mine.' Sherlock just smiled and slid into the back seat, next to his brother. The chauffeur closed the door and went back round to get into the driving seat. The 'minder' got into the front passenger seat and the car drew away. Mycroft told the driver to go to Molly's flat, then the two brothers sat in silence in the back seat, writing and showing text messages to one another, discussing the events of the day and evening.

SH: It's a conspiracy, against you, it seems.

MH: Just me?

SH: Looks like.

MH: Who's involved?

Sherlock typed a list of initials and showed them to Mycroft, who nodded, seemingly unsurprised.

MH: How long have they been plotting?

SH: Emails go back a year, at least.

MH: Need to bring in the big guns.

SH: Bigger guns than you?

MH: I'm not a gun – I'm a dagger!

ooOoo

When the car pulled up in the crescent, outside the flat, Sherlock got out and the other men remained in the car. He let himself in, using the key code, and as he entered the flat itself, Molly was waiting in the hall. She threw her arms round him, hugging him. He closed his eyes and rested his cheek against her head, returning the hug and absorbing the comforting warmth that her embrace conveyed. Although his mind had shut out the traumatic effect of the violent attack on his person, his body betrayed him now, as it began to tremble. He reached back, bracing his hand against the wall, to steady himself.

'Are you alright? Do you need to sit down?' she asked, full of concern.

'No, I'm OK. The nurse said I would get after-shocks, it's just one of those,' he replied, placing a reassuring hand on her cheek and kissing her, tenderly. 'Can you take the child seat out to the car? I'll bring William.' He walked through the sitting room and down the corridor to William's room. His son was asleep, in his bed. Sherlock scooped him up, wrapping his duvet around him, and held him against his frame. William put an arm around his father's neck and nestled into his shoulder, still sleeping soundly. Sherlock carried him back through the flat, just as the driver appeared in the hallway, to collect the bag that Molly had packed for the three of them. Sherlock switched off the lights and locked the flat door. Back at the car, Mycroft had moved to the jump seat and the child seat was installed where he usually sat. Sherlock fitted his son into the child seat and brought the seat belt across to secure him, clipping it into the lock. He then climbed in himself and sat on the jump seat opposite Molly. Having put the case in the boot, the driver returned to the helm and the entourage set off for Hertfordshire.

ooOoo

**Much to my surprise, I've managed to complete another chapter. Off on my travels tomorrow - Land's End to John o' Groats, 1000 miles in 9 days. Fortunately, I'm driving the support vehicle, not cycling like the others. Go, Team LEJOG! All in the name of charity. Wish us luck!**


	17. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Sixteen**

The journey had hardly begun before it became blinding obvious to Molly that Sherlock could barely stay upright in the jump seat, which offered virtually no support, other than that which the seat belt provided. The effort which he was exerting to keep from slipping sideways was causing his muscles to spasm. Molly insisted that he change places with her, which he did, reluctantly. No sooner was he settled in the comfort of the back seat, than the stress and trauma of the day got the better of him and he slipped into a deep, exhausted sleep.

When the car arrived at the family home, Mycroft took charge of the situation.

'I will take William up to your rooms. Molly, you see if you can get him up the stairs in one piece. If not, Andrew will be more than happy to assist you. The driver will bring your bag.' He then took William out of the child seat and carried him into the house.

It took very little effort to rouse Sherlock. When Molly touched his cheek, he lurched forward so suddenly that he was jerked back by the locking seatbelt, which caused him to flail around, wildly, not fully aware of where he was or what was stopping him from getting up. Eventually, Molly got him focused, on his feet and moving in the right direction. She guided him into the house, where she was advised by the housekeeper, Mrs Harris, that they were in Nelson. The rooms in this house all had names – a fact that Molly found quite amusing but which Sherlock maintained was simply logical. In a house with so many rooms, he had explained, the only alternative to naming them would be to number them, which would be truly weird. Nelson and Hamilton, named after Lord Nelson and Lady Hamilton, were two bedrooms joined and, indeed, separated by a 'Jack and Jill' bathroom, with doors into both rooms, which meant that one could go from one room to the other, via the bathroom. William, Molly assumed, would be sleeping in Hamilton. She towed Sherlock up the stairs and into Nelson. He was dead on his feet, dazed and confused, but, after a good deal of repetition, she hoped she had got it across to him that he should get undressed and get into bed. She then went next door – via the bathroom – to sort out William.

Mycroft was just settling the little boy into the large antique bed that had probably stood in that room for a couple of centuries and had any number of powerful, influential people sleep in it. Tonight, however, it would be just one small, rather tired child. Molly saw that her son was being well taken care of by his uncle and, as Mycroft kissed the boy on his forehead and stepped away from the bed, Molly put her arms around Sherlock's brother and gave him a warm hug.

'Thank you so much, Mycroft, for coming to our rescue once again. I am so grateful to you,' she said. Mycroft was abjectly apologetic.

'Molly, please don't thank me. In reality, it is my fault that you're in this predicament. Sherlock was working on my behalf when he discovered some information that has, potentially, put you all in danger. It's the least I can do to offer you a safe haven until the danger can be neutralised,' he explained.

Molly smiled and patted him on the arm.

'Family is family,' she said. 'We're all in this together.'

'I expect there will be supper to be had downstairs, if you care for some,' Mycroft advised. Molly assured him that she had already eaten and that Sherlock was in no condition to eat, being virtually comatose, so he bid her goodnight and left the room. Molly went back into Nelson, to find Sherlock out for the count on the bed, having managed to remove his coat, jacket and shoes but nothing else. Molly knew that he would hate himself in the morning for getting his trousers creased, so she set about divesting him of them. When she tried to unfasten the waist band, he pushed her hands away and muttered,

'Go away, John. Leave me alone.'

Molly giggled to herself, wondering how many times, and in what circumstances, John Watson had been obliged to undress his friend. With Sherlock's track record for finding himself in hazardous situations and ending up the worse for wear, she imagined quite a few. By persistent effort, she finally managed to get his trousers off him, folded and hung up in the wardrobe, along with his jacket and coat. She left him in his shirt, socks and boxers, since the chances of getting those off were slim to nil, pulled the other half of the duvet over him, and bent to give him a gentle kiss on the cheek, then went back into the other room. She would sleep with William tonight. This was probably for the best, since he might be quite confused, when he woke in the morning, to find himself in another bed, another room, another house, indeed, another county.

ooOoo

Mycroft went down the stairs and into the study, the security man following him, stoically. Once inside the study, he dialled Dame Joan's private number. She answered, cordially, sounding unsurprised that it was him calling.

'Yes, good evening once again, ma'am,' Mycroft returned her greeting. 'I have some rather urgent information to give to you but, before I begin, would you kindly ask your man here to afford us some privacy?' He paused, listening, then handed the telephone receiver to the goon and stood, waiting for the man to be instructed by the DG of the British Secret Service. The man listened, nodded, agreed and then, handing the phone back to Mycroft, left the room.

'You need to scramble,' the elder Holmes advised the lady, then waited for a moment for the action to be achieved. Once he was sure the line was secure, he sat in one of the deep wing chairs and took a preparatory breath.

'It is much as I suspected, ma'am. There seems to be a small cartel of minor officials and back benchers who are involved in something of an attempted coup. My brother has been conducting an enquiry on my behalf and has identified a code which they appear to have been using to communicate, quite openly, under the very noses of the government, the civil service and M15. Their main objective would seem to be to have me discredited and replaced as head of the department – possibly, so that they can get their own puppet installed – but most likely just so they feel there is less likelihood of being exposed. Their ultimate objective is yet to be identified but, judging by the clumsy manner in which they have gone about things so far, I doubt the phrase 'master plan' could be ascribed to their intensions.'

'So, are you saying, Mycroft, that my department has been barking up the wrong tree?' Dame Joan asked, her voice heavy with irony.

'Well, ma'am, did you not think it rather unlikely, even supposing I were to have any intensions of selling government secrets to one of its many enemies, that I would change the habit of a lifetime and take a holiday, in order to advertise my treachery? As I said before, they have been clumsy, in the extreme. All they achieved was to point the finger directly at their mole in my own department.'

'You have a mole? And do I gather, then, that your brother discovered this mole?'

'With some assistance, he did, ma'am, yes.'

'I need to see your evidence, Mycroft,' the DG stated.

'Then, please, accept an invitation to lunch, tomorrow, here, at my home, and I will show you what we have.'

'Very well, I accept. What time should I arrive?'

'Eleven in the morning would be perfect, then we will have time to talk before we eat.' The DG confirmed that she would arrive at the Holmes' family residence at eleven the next morning, and they both hung up.

Mycroft reached out and picked up the glass of Lagavulin that Andrew had earlier placed on the small table beside the chair. As he sipped the warming liquid, he mulled over the events of the day, not least the blatant attack on his brother. He wondered what the conspirators hoped to achieve by this vulgar display of brutality. They had retrieved the data on the pen drive but most of it would still be in Sherlock's head anyway and that which wasn't could be obtained from the hard drive of the laptop or, failing that, by simply asking the hackers to resend the files. It all seemed rather pointless. The plotters might as well have raised a flag to advertise their exact position. Could they really be that stupid or was this just a smoke screen to mask their true intensions? And how dangerous might they prove to be, when the chips came down?

ooOoo

William woke the next morning and, on opening his eyes and looking around the strange room, sat up with a squeal of excitement, which woke Molly from a troubled sleep, full of unseen threats and ominous dangers.

'Mummy, we're in Uncle Mytoft's house! How did we get here?' William gasped. 'Did we come by magic?' Sherlock had been reading 'Harry Potter' to him and he was fascinated by the idea of flying on broomsticks, travelling through chimneys, by means of Flue Powder and of 'apparating'.

'Uncle Mycroft brought us in his car, baby,' Molly explained. William processed that information, then looked around the bed.

'Where's Daddy? Did Uncle Mytoft bring him too?' he asked.

'Yes, darling, he's in the room next door. He was so tired that he fell asleep on top of the duvet so I came to sleep in your bed, with you. I thought you might wonder where you were, if you woke up on your own.'

'No, Mummy, of course I would know where I was but I might wonder where you and Daddy were,' William corrected her, with unerring Holmesian logic. Molly wondered how this sort of reasoning was received at school. Not so well, from a three year old, she imagined. 'Can I go and see Daddy?' he asked.

'Yes, darling, but go in quietly and if Daddy's asleep, don't wake him, please. He had a very busy day yesterday', Molly explained. William scrambled out of the bed and padded through the bathroom, pushing the door open to the room next door and walking round the bed, to look at his father's face, since Shelock was lying on his side, facing the opposite wall. William rested his elbows on the bed, placing his hands in the prayer position, under his small chin, as he had seen his father do innumerable times, and gazed with intense concentration at Sherlock's closed eyes. Whether because of the child's close proximity or by some extrasensory form of communication, it was only a matter of moments before Sherlock's eyes flickered open and focused on the small face, inches from his own.

'Good morning, William,' he murmured, still not fully awake. He reached out an arm and stroked the child's head, then looked around, taking in his environment. A puzzled crease appeared between his eyebrows.

'How did I get here?' he asked, more of himself then the child.

'Uncle Mytoft brought us. We didn't come by magic,' William informed him.

'That's good. I always get travel sick when I apparate,' Sherlock replied. Then he noticed his outstretched arm was still wearing a shirt sleeve and he groaned with the apprehension that he had slept fully clothed. He lifted the duvet and was relieved to see that his legs were bare. William took the lifting of the duvet as an invitation to climb into bed with his father, so he did, and cuddled in to his chest. Sherlock wrapped his arms round the child and pressed his cheek to the top of his head, almost drowning in the feelings that holding his own child aroused in him. Parental love had no equal and no rival in the panoply of emotions. Sherlock wondered how he had ever imagined his life to be tolerable without it.

William moved his head back and gazed directly into Sherlock's eyes, then squinted slightly and, placing his hand on his father's cheek, said,

'Daddy, you eye is all red inside.'

'Is it?' Sherlock asked. 'I wonder why? I'll have a look at it when I get up.'

'Let me have a look,' said Molly's voice from behind him. She had just walked into the room, from the bathroom. She climbed onto the bed and crawled over to Sherlock's side, as he rolled onto his back and turned his face toward her. She took his chin in one hand and stared into his liquid eyes.

'Yes, you have a bleed in your left eye – not surprising, under the circumstances. It looks OK, though. Just need to monitor it, in case it bleeds again.' She smiled at him and kissed him on the offending eye, then lay down next to him and put her arm around him and William, enclosing them both in a loving embrace.

This was another thing that Sherlock wondered how he had ever lived without. Molly's touch was therapeutic, almost like that of a healer. When she placed her hand on him, in even the most perfunctory way, he felt a wave of emotion sweep through him. She was his compass and his gravity. She anchored him to life and guided him home. He turned his face toward her and breathed in the aroma of her hair and skin. It was like a love potion. He closed his eyes and felt his heart swell with great contentment. He and Mycroft had been so wrong to think that caring was not an advantage. With their childhood, virtually devoid of any real emotional warmth or comfort, it was no surprise they had both grown up thinking that love was a dangerous emotion. Neither of them could afford to risk investing in something that had no potential for any sort of return on that investment. It would have been a venture doomed to failure, a pointless exercise in futility. How lucky for both him and his brother that this angel of mercy had entered their lives. Sherlock had noticed as soon as he came back 'from the dead' that Mycroft had changed during his absence and he was sure that it was spending time with Molly and William that had effected that change. Yes, caring was fraught with danger. It made one vulnerable and it could be painful, too, but the advantages far outweighed the disadvantages, he had learned. It had been a protracted process, this learning curve, but he was so grateful for it now. How sweet it felt to lie in this warm bed, holding his own son and being held by this woman, who was so soft and gentle but also strong and steadfast. He kissed her cheek and savoured the moment a little longer before galvanising his mind and body for the difficulties of the day ahead.

ooOoo

When Sherlock, Molly and William walking into the breakfast room, Mycroft was already seated at the head of the table, reading his morning paper, the ever-present security operative being conspicuous by his absence. The master of the house quickly folded his paper and rose from his seat, in a well-ingrained gesture of respect to Molly, then indicated the sideboard, which bore several serving dishes with metal covers.

'There's all the usual stuff there,' he advised them, walking over to the sideboard himself and pouring another cup of coffee from the pot. He then placed his cup down and said to William,

'Tell you what, old chap, let Mummy and Daddy serve themselves and I'll be your footman. What would you care for, young Master Holmes?' As he spoke, he picked William up and seated him on the crook of his elbow, so he could see the contents of the serving dishes, as he lifted the covers one by one. In this way, William was able to choose his breakfast, after which Mycroft carried both child and plate to the table and settled his nephew in, to enjoy his meal. Having performed this little service, Mycroft retrieved his coffee and sat back in his chair. Molly and Sherlock both came to the table with their food of choice and the family began to eat.

'Dame Joan will be here at eleven,' Mycroft advised his brother. 'We need to get her and her resources involved in this, now that we have the evidence to prove what is really going on, here.'

'We don't actually have the evidence though, do we? Not in any tangible form,' Sherlock countered.

'I don't think it will be much of a surprise to the DG, when she hears the names you told me. Had I needed to guess, they would have been my prime suspects. It was Anthea who told you where to look for the mole, wasn't it. Remarkable young woman, that one; I am most fortunate to have her. She will be joining us at eleven, too, by the way. Right now, I imagine, she will be at Baker Street, hunting down and neutralising whatever bugs might have been installed there. She has a marvellous device for that purpose, a souvenir of her days as a field operative. She never would tell me to whom it originally belonged or how she came by it, which is probably for the best; I would hate to have to confiscate it as illegal technology.' Following that intriguing comment, Mycroft changed the subject to more congenial matters and the rest of the meal passed off very pleasantly.

ooOoo


	18. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Seventeen**

Anthea stepped out of her flat door to walk down the stairs and out into the street. It was with a feeling bordering on elation that she noted the absence of her 'tail'. Being followed, even by members of one's own secret service, was not a pleasant experience for anyone and especially irritating for her, since they had been so blatant about it. As a field agent, she had prided herself on her clean record of tailing subjects without ever being sussed. She had also achieved almost legendary status for her ability to lose tails. In Beirut, she had managed to evade a group of jihadists who had systematically eliminated every other member of her team, after one of their number blew his own cover, and subsequently that of every other member of the group, by swearing in English when a car nearly hit him, whilst crossing a busy street. That was the incident that had effectively ended her career in the field. She no longer wished to trust her safety to idiots who could not even maintain their own cover, let alone protect hers. When she eventually made it back to the UK, via a very circuitous route, since the Jihadist group in question were quite determined to find and kill every one of the infidels who had trespassed on their sacred soil, she had reported for debrief and undergone many hours of very painful and probing interrogation – because of her extended absence from the radar screen. This was standard procedure for any agent who was AWOL for any length of time. They were automatically suspected of having been 'turned'. The paranoia of the desk jockeys knew no bounds. After surviving her debriefing, she announced her retirement and, by a timely stroke of luck, landed her current position as Mycroft Holmes' PA and covert protection. That was a match made in heaven. They were both consummate professionals. He made it clear, from the beginning of their association, what defined her role and his role and where the two roles overlapped. They were a good team, had absolute trust in one another and mutual respect. One could not wish for more in a working relationship.

Anthea made her way to the nearest tube station and rode the Underground to Baker Street. On reaching the front door of 221, she rang Mrs Hudson's door bell and waited while the lady answered her ring.

'Hello, Mrs Hudson. I'm Anthea Smith, Mr Holmes' PA,' she introduced herself, showing her ID card, which Mrs H scrutinised, closely. 'I've been sent here to carry out a security sweep of the property. I wonder if you would mind letting me in?' Mrs Hudson looked at her with some scepticism then said,

'I need to ring Mr Holmes first. Can you wait there, please, dear?' Anthea nodded and stepped back from the door. Mrs Hudson shut the door and returned to her flat to call Mycroft's mobile number. She found him in the breakfast room, alone.

'What is going on, Mycroft? What happened last night? The people in the café said someone attacked Sherlock and now there's a young woman saying she's here to check the building for security.'

'Yes, dear lady, I am afraid that is correct. Miss Smith will need to check my brother's flat and the communal areas. I don't think she will need to check your flat, unless you would like her to,' Mycroft answered.

'Well, since she's here, she may as well,' Mrs Hudson replied.

She returned to the door and let Anthea in, directing her up the stairs to 221B. 'Do you need me to let you in?' she enquired. 'The sitting room door is probably locked.'

Anthea assured her that there was no need, since she had a key, and made her way up the stairs, taking out her detector device and scanning the most likely places for a hidden camera – the light fittings and architraves of this Georgian building. On reaching the first floor landing, she went into Sherlock's bedroom, then round the landing and up the next flight of stairs, into what had been John's room and was now a spare room, mostly used for storage, it seemed. Drawing a blank, she came back down the stairs and unlocked the door into the sitting room. She stood in the middle of the room and scanned round the entire perimeter, finding nothing. She scanned again, just to be sure – but still nothing. Walking into the kitchen, she scanned there, too, but still came up negative. Finally, she went into the bathrooms – first the communal one and then Sherlock's en suite. No joy. This complete absence of any kind of surveillance device was interesting. How did the 'watchers' know what Sherlock had been doing in the flat? There were two further possibilities, as she saw it. She found the home hub, on the sill of one of the windows, unplugged it and put it in her shoulder bag. Someone could have installed some sort of relay device, which would allow them to see, remotely, everything Sherlock had done via the Wi-Fi. It may not be something her device could detect, since it was not a conventional transmitter or receiver. The tech boys could take a look at that. The other option was that there was actually some sort of bug in Sherlock's laptop itself. She took out her mobile and rang her boss.

'Hello, sir, yes, I have completed a full sweep and found nothing,' she answered Mycroft's opening enquiry. 'I wonder whether there may be something in Mr Holmes' laptop, sir. I think it best he doesn't use it until someone has given it the once over.'

Mycroft thanked her for the information and told her a car was on its way to pick her up and bring her to the meeting with Dame Joan. They both cut off the call. Anthea locked up, went downstairs and dutifully swept Mrs Hudson's flat, finding nothing. She then left the building and got into the black car that was waiting outside.

ooOoo

Sherlock was less than pleased when Mycroft told him he may have been spied on by his own laptop. He handed it over to his brother with a look of disgust on his face, as though it were something highly infectious. They were sitting in the morning room, awaiting the arrival of the two lunch guests. Molly had taken William out in the grounds of the estate, for a good run around, while the pre-lunch meeting took place. Dame Joan and Anthea arrived almost at the same time and were shown into the morning room. Mycroft asked for a pot of coffee and, once that had been delivered and served, he began the proceedings by inviting Sherlock to relay his findings with regard to the email accounts of the individuals in question. Sherlock explained the anomalies he had detected in the words and phrases used in communications and how he saw a code pattern in them, although he had not been able to decipher what the messages meant.

'We have people specially trained to do that, Mr Holmes,' Dame Joan assured him, 'but we do need to have the messages to work on. And, I suspect, since the conspirators would seem to know that you are on to them, the likelihood is the original emails have been permanently deleted. However, one imagines that your source will still have a copy. Would they be willing to resend?'

'I'm sure they would, for a price,' Sherlock replied. The DG nodded.

'I won't even ask who these people are or how they obtained this information,' she stated. 'I often think we should employ these hackers, rather than criminalizing them. They have skills we could really make use of in the service. So I will leave it to you to contact them and make the request but I will cover any expenses you may incur in the process. In the meantime, I feel we should be rounding these people up, before they have too much opportunity to cover their tracks – or abscond. You can provide a full list of names, I hope, Mycroft?' she asked. He responded by taking a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and handing it to the lady.

'Miss Smith, I am guessing it was you who spotted the mole in your department,' Dame Joan said to Anthea.

'Yes, ma'am,' she replied. 'There was only one other person who knew the secret plans were coming that day, having been cc'd into my emails during my two week absence. He also had access to a key to Mr Holmes' briefcase, though how he actually obtained the contents of the briefcase remains to be revealed. We might need to speak to the driver on the day. He would have been well placed to open the case, if he had a key, whilst I was waiting for Mr Holmes in Arrivals. They may have worked together. This is pure speculation, ma'am, but it is a possible explanation.' Everyone looked at Sherlock, since his opinion on the deduction was the most sought after. He was looking distracted but he seemed to rouse himself, when Mycroft said his name, and agreed that Anthea's deduction seemed sound, in the absence of other evidence.

'Well, we'll have them both brought in,' the DG decided. 'May I use your telephone, Mycroft?' She and her host rose and left the room, to go to his study and set wheels in motion, leaving Anthea alone with the brooding Consulting Detective. She sipped her coffee and did not intrude into his reverie. The silence stretched but was not uncomfortable. It was abruptly broken by Sherlock.

'It doesn't make sense. It's just too obvious. There's more to this than we yet know,' he said, to no one in particular.

'I have to agree with you,' Anthea replied and Sherlock looked up, as though surprised to hear her voice. She was not fazed by this behaviour. She knew of his methods and was intrigued to witness them in action. Before any further demonstration of his MO could occur, however, the door to the room opened and William charged in, closely followed by his mother. He ran straight over to his father and began to fill him in on all the adventures he had enjoyed that morning. Molly took a vacant seat and smiled at Anthea. They began to chat and continued until the lunch bell called them all to the dining room.

ooOoo

After lunch, Mycroft invited Dame Joan to accompany him on a land rover tour of the estate, which she happily accepted. William did not need to be asked twice to tag along. Touring the estate with his uncle was his favourite way to spend an afternoon. Anthea excused herself and returned home, to enjoy her new freedom from surveillance, though well aware of her own vulnerability, and prepared to be hyper-vigilant on her own behalf.

Sherlock and Molly retired to their room, where Sherlock lay on the bed, eyes closed, still feeling the after effects of his Taser attack, the night before. Molly lay next to him, propped up on one elbow, her free hand on his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. He was not asleep.

'Do you think we are still in danger?' she asked. He opened his eyes and reached out to smooth her hair from her face.

'Not while we're here,' he replied.

'We can't stay here for ever. William has school, I have work, you have your work, too. And…' she broke off.

'And what?' he asked, pulling her toward him, to rest her head on his shoulder and curl into his side.

'We have our twelve week scan on Tuesday. We can't miss that,' she explained.

'We won't miss it. If need be, Mycroft can provide us with protection. It won't hurt for William to miss a couple of days of school and St Bart's Pathology Dept. will have to manage without you for a while. I don't have anything on, at the moment. This was my only case,' he concluded. He slipped his hand under her hair, at the back of her neck, and pulled her into a soft but sensuous kiss. She reciprocated by combing her fingers into his hair and hooking her leg over his hips. As they both let go of the tensions of recent events, they surrendered to passion and lost themselves in the ecstasy of their mutual devotion.

ooOoo

Two days later, accompanied by two of Mycroft's most trusted protection officers, Sherlock, Molly and William arrived at the Radiology Department at St Thomas's Hospital for the baby's twelve week scan. The decision to bring William along had been made after a long discussion. Sherlock felt it would help him to understand what the process of pregnancy was all about. Molly was not so sure but she did not think it could do any harm. She was happier that he was with them, rather being left behind in Hertfordshire, since Mycroft had been released from suspension and was back at his desk, so William would have been alone with the staff. Molly had no doubt that the staff would care for him well but being separated from him was not an option for her, at the moment, with this vague threat hanging over them all. She trusted that Sherlock would be the best judge of what their son could cope with and the best person to mediate what was happening on the screen in language the little boy could process. He had, after all, brought William to the hospital when she was in an induced coma and had explained everything so well, putting the boy's mind at rest. And he had been a year younger, then.

The radiographer was not in the least surprised to see the whole family arrive for the scan, though a bit curious about the two gentlemen who accompanied them and waited outside, looking implacable and just a little menacing. Apparently, it was not uncommon for older siblings to come along to scans but less common for body guards. She was, however, very surprised to see Molly here with a man – and a rather gorgeous man, at that. She remembered Miss Hooper from her scans during her first pregnancy, the result of which was now sitting in the crook of the arm of this rather gorgeous man, of whom he was the very image. This man was, without a doubt, the biological father of the little boy and, presumably, of the new baby, too. The radiographer had assumed, the first time around, that Molly and her enthusiastic film-maker had been a gay couple. She was now reassessing this assumption. The tall, dark-haired man with the razor-sharp cheekbones was not just a sperm donor. He was clearly part of the little boy's life and was most attentive to the mother-to-be, also, assisting her onto the examination couch and stroking a stray lock of hair from her eyes, as she lay back and exposed her slightly swollen abdomen. So, she re-calibrated the family structure and, turning to the father-to-be, was surprised to be met with an amused expression.

'Yes, we are a family,' he stated. She was rather taken aback and a bit embarrassed that he had deduced her train of thought but he did not look put out, so she returned his smile.

'So what's this little chap called?' she asked.

'This is William,' Molly replied.

'I'm very pleased to meet you, William,' the radiographer greeted him. 'I rarely get to see my former patients, post-partum. Have you come to check out the competition?' she asked him, with a teasing grin. William regarded her with a furrowed brow, then said,

'I've come to see the new baby.' He wasn't sure how this was going to pan out so he was keeping an open mind.

'We thought it might help him understand what was going on, if he was involved with all the steps along the way,' Molly explained. 'Well, nearly all. Probably not the delivery, itself.'

'Why ever not?' the lady exclaimed. When the two adults looked at her, enquiringly, she went on. 'It's not so long ago that most babies were born at home and the older siblings were just around, taking it all in. It was considered the norm. Only when births began to take place predominantly in hospitals, in the 1960's, did it become all mysterious and medical. It's really the most natural process in the world.' Molly knew from her previous encounters with this health care professional that she was a bit of a traditionalist, so it did not really surprise her to hear her speak this way. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed quite intrigued by her statement.

'Have you considered a home birth?' the lady asked. Molly was rather taken by surprise.

'Well, no, actually. The thought had never even crossed my mind, until now. I didn't know people had home births any more, except by accident.'

'Oh, yes, my dear, you can choose to have a home birth if you would like to. How was your first delivery?' the woman asked.

'Absolutely fine. No problems at all. I opted for natural childbirth – drug free labour – and it was an amazing experience. I really felt in control of the process,' Molly smiled, remembering the day William came into the world.

'Well, it's something to consider. If you had the baby at home, William would be able to watch,' the radiographer suggested, smiling at the serious little boy, sitting in his father's arms.

'Don't you think he might find it a bit frightening?' Molly asked, with caution.

'It all depends how it's handled. As I said before, home births used to be the norm. Older brothers and sisters were not shielded from the experience, kept in the dark, as they are now. Children are remarkably resilient. And he seems like a curious little chap, to me. I think he'd find the whole process fascinating and he would probably feel less threatened by the new-comer if he was involved right from the beginning. It can be a great bonding experience for older siblings, watching the little ones coming into the world. Have a chat with your obstetrician It will give you another option to consider.'

Having said her piece, the lady went about the business of conducting the scan and explaining to the whole family exactly what they were seeing on the screen. William was engrossed in looking at the image of his new sibling and seemed to follow everything the lady was saying, which was hardly surprising, since she did not use any fancy medical terms but just pointed out the salient features - head, arms, legs. Sherlock was equally fascinated, having missed both William's scans, though he had seen the images. He held Molly's hand and she detected a slight tremor in his, when the baby's profile appeared, clear as day, on the computer monitor. The foetus was sucking its thumb. When it came to the big question of the baby's gender, both parents-to-be gave a firm 'no'. The radiographer smiled again.

'Much better to wait and be surprised,' she agreed. Having confirmed that the foetus was developing exactly as it should, she printed out the thumb-sucking image and handed it to William.

'There's one for the family album,' she smiled. William took it and gave her a polite and still-solemn 'thank you'.

Sitting in the limousine, on the way back to Hertfordshire, having called at their flat to collect more clothes and other essentials for a longer stay, Molly looked across to Sherlock, sitting opposite in the jump seat, and said,

'How do you feel about a home birth?' He looked back at her and shrugged his shoulders.

'I would be fine with whatever you chose. After all, it's you that has to go through the actual process. I shall be right there, either way. I wouldn't miss this for the world,' he assured her, leaning across and kissing her tenderly, on the lips. William sat in the child seat, holding the scan photo in both hands and gazing at it intently. He was still trying to figure out how the baby had gotten in there in the first place. It was a puzzle but he was determined to crack it.

ooOoo


	19. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Eighteen**

Mycroft sat in the observation room, watching the image, on the screen, of the cringing, snivelling figure of James Mottram, huddled in a chair, in the interview room. He had been under interrogation for three days. Initially, he had been arrogant and dismissive, confident and secure in his complete innocence of any wrong-doing. The interrogator had allowed him to maintain this stance for the first day, apologising for having to subject him to the ignominy of having his loyalty questioned. Having lulled him into a false sense of security, on the second day, the questioning began in earnest about his association with the other persons named on the list that Mycroft had provided, following Sherlock's revelations. He continued to maintain his innocence and explained that, in his position, he had good cause to mix, both professionally and socially, with the people named. On the third day, having allowed him home on both previous nights, with a minder, of course, the interrogator produced a transcript of James Mottram's private emails, from the preceding year and a half. Some of these had been circled and some highlighted. Some had notes jotted next to them, in the margin. The Interrogator allowed her subject to glimpse this, without him actually being able to read what the circled and highlighted emails said or what the notes alluded to or even to whom the emails were addressed.

It was at this stage that James Mottram's bravura performance began to falter. He sat more upright in his chair, fiddled with his shirt cuffs, asked for a glass of water and drank deeply but too fast and had to contend with a bout of coughing when he accidentally inhaled water. The Interrogator expressed her concern for his well-being and waited patiently, with a sympathetic smile, whilst he recovered himself. She then began to read certain phrases from the emails, asking him to explain what he meant by them. He began to stammer a little and lose his thread, er-ing and ah-ing and using phrases such as 'Well, you know…' After a short break, which was his right, under the international convention, he was returned to the room. This time, the Interrogator had a sheaf of pages – transcripts of other people's private emails, similarly circled, highlighted and annotated. She began to read phrases from these emails which matched, word for word, the phrases she had picked out from his own. She then paused, pursed her lips and observed that she had stopped imitating her friends' manner of speaking when she was about eighteen. She had then looked at him, with a quizzical eye, and said nothing at all for about half an hour, during which time he demanded access to a solicitor, asked what exactly he was being accused of and, eventually, began to sob and dribble tears and snot down his face. His Interrogator had produced a box of tissues and encouraged him to blow his nose, patting him on the shoulder and uttering platitudes, such as 'there, there' and 'we are only here to help you, Mr Mottram'.

Mycroft had watched most of this, in real time, but had just been reviewing the edited highlights. The man looked quite broken and ready to unburden himself, so it was Mycroft's turn to take over the role of Interrogator. He rose and left the observation room, leaving behind the other observers – the body language experts, the stenographers and the civil rights watch dogs – to continue their vigil. He walked the short distance down the subterranean corridor, to the door of the interview room, where Dr Eve Matthews was waiting. She smiled at him and he returned her smile and said,

'Excellent work, Dr Matthews,' before he tapped on the door. It was opened from the inside by the security guard who, having admitted them, relocked the door and then stood in front of it, gazing off into the distance, looking detached and disinterested but not missing a single twitch of the subject, who, having been allowed home for the night before, for a shower, a meal and night's sleep - however sound - sat, like a naughty school boy, waiting outside the head masters office, wondering what punishment might be in store.

Mycroft held the back of Eve's chair, whilst she sat down, took his own seat and gave the subject his most reptilian smile.

'James,' he began, 'I believe you may have some information you would like to share with us concerning a small pressure group that has established itself, within the Home Office, in order to promote its own agenda.' James Mottram took a deep breath and began to talk.

ooOoo

John and Mary had intended to go over to Sherlock and Molly's flat for a meal, on the evening of Molly's twelve week scan, in order to celebrate the occasion of the parents-to-be seeing their new baby for the first time, albeit via the modern miracle of ultrasound technology. However, since Molly, Sherlock and William were currently residing at the Holmes' country house, it was rather too far to go for an evening's entertainment and both John and Mary had work the next day, so the dinner date was deferred until the couple could return to their London abode. It was John who suggested they go out for a meal, instead. Mary was four months pregnant now, well over the short and fairly mild bout of pregnancy sickness that she had experienced, and beginning to show evidence of a more pronounced bump. Both she and John referred to their gestating foetus as 'Jelly Bean', since it was an asexual epithet and seemed to suit the anthropomorphised character that they had imagined for the 'wee beastie', which was John's other manner of referring to their child.

John had phoned the Commissary restaurant and made a reservation, though he had been assured that such a thing was not necessary on a week day. It was quite a balmy evening, as they strolled along the Regent's Canal, having taken the Tube to the Angel. Mary had never been to the Commissary but John had been quite taken with the place, on his visit there with Sherlock, and knew that Mary would like the ambiance and the food. They crossed the canal at Wharf Road and walked the short distance to Eagle Wharf Road, where they entered via the front gates. John was immediately recognised and greeted, enthusiastically, by the owner, as Mr Holmes. He felt obliged to correct the man as to his true identity and explained that the person with him that other evening had, in fact, been the real Sherlock Holmes.

'Oh, righ'!' the man exclaimed. 'So 'e's the actual detective, then?' the man stated, nodding knowingly. 'We all thought 'e was your boyfriend, just come along for the ride, like.' John, brushing over that comment, explained that Sherlock liked to observe people's reactions so sometimes asked him to conduct interviews so that he could concentrate on that aspect. He then introduced Mary as his wife and they were escorted to an inside table, next to the huge open bi-fold doors, which had the advantage of affording a canal-side view but could be closed, if it got a bit chilly, later in the evening. The young man left them to settle in and peruse the menu. The young lady who came to serve them was Heidi, the woman previously suspected of involvement in the death of Elaine Evans, her boyfriend's former fiancée.

'We are so grateful to you and your friend for clearin' us of killin' Elaine, Dr Watson,' she gushed. 'The police was just about to charge us when your friend told them she done it 'erself. We never bin so relieved!' John accepted her thanks with all due modesty, since he had actually agreed with the police, himself. 'Elaine's family ain't too chuffed, though,' the girl went on. 'They bin round 'ere loads o' times threat'nin' me an' Steve. They reckon we bribed ya to lie for us. We've 'ad t' phone the police a couple o' times. Sometimes, they stand on the opposite bank o' the canal an' shout obscenities, cos they can't actually get in 'ere, cos o' the security gates. Other times, they stand outside and 'arass the customers, as they come and go. It 'as 'ad an effect on the business. Our takin's have dropt quite bad.'

John and Mary expressed sympathy about the situation but then made it clear that this was a private social occasion, by calling each other 'darling' and drawing one another's attention to aspects of the view. Heidi took the hint and left them to it, taking their order to the kitchen.

The rest of the evening passed very pleasantly. Mary loved the food and the environment and agreed they should add this venue to their growing list of favourite places to eat out. When John asked for the bill, the owner refused to take his money, saying that they all owed him so much for helping to clear Heidi's name and assured him that he and his wife could eat there whenever they liked, for free. John protested, as this essentially meant they would probably never eat there again, out of embarrassment, but the man was adamant, so the couple thanked him and showed their gratitude by leaving a large tip. They then strolled along the pontoons, toward the side gate, passing the very spot where, Sherlock had deduced, a bitter young woman had slipped to her watery death, 'hoist with her own petar,' to paraphrase Shakespeare.

As John and Mary exited through the side gate, up onto street level, a shape suddenly loomed out of the shadows and they found themselves confronted by Mr Evans himself, the step father of the dead girl.

'You won't be patronisin' that place agin, if you knows what's good fer ya!' he yelled, startling Mary into emitting an involuntary shriek. John immediately pushed Mary behind him and faced up to the taller, heavier man, in a defensive posture. The two men stared one another down for a moment or two, until the bigger man suddenly opened his mouth and eyes in a cartoonish parody of surprise.

'You're 'im! You're that bloke, what come round arskin' questions! You're that bastard who tol' the Filth that my Elaine done 'erself in!'

John's reactions were still sharp but the man was much bigger and heavier than him and seemed to envelop the smaller man in his huge, flabby arms, lifting him off his feet and carrying him along the pavement. John struggled to escape but his arms were pinned to his sides and his feet were unable to touch, let alone gain any purchase, on the pavement. As Mary screamed for help and battered the man's retreating back and head, with her hands and her handbag, the struggling ensemble reached the bridge which spanned the canal at that point. The larger man heaved his struggling burden up onto the parapet and, with gargantuan effort, thrust him backwards, over the barrier. John tried to prevent himself from falling, by grabbing at the man's arms and shoulders, but he was unable to gain any firm hold, due to the sheer mass of blubber carried under the other man's skin. As his body weight tilted over the tipping point, he felt himself falling, inexorably, toward the cold, dark, rippling surface of the canal. He seemed to be suspended, in free fall, as he watched the man's leering face, illuminated by the street lighting, retreating from him. When he hit the water, the cold was like an electric shock, paralysing his diaphragm and intercostal muscles, evoking the sensation of suffocation. The murky effluvium closed over him and he sank into its depths.

Rushing to the parapet, Mary looked down, in shock and horror, as the dark waters closed over his head and her husband disappeared from view. She watched, stunned into inactivity but screaming his name, in frantic desperation waiting and hoping for him to bob back to the surface, like a cork. The man responsible for John's predicament stood transfixed for a long moment, then, realising he had just committed a serious assault, he pushed away from the parapet and stumbled across to the far bank of the water course, hurrying away, towards the Angel. Such was Mary's distress, she did not notice the figures running along the pontoons, shining powerful torches over the water, until one of their number shouted and pointed to a place a few yards from John's point of entry.

Even as he did this, John's head broke the surface in that spot and another figure hurled a life ring toward him. He reached out and caught hold of the floatation ring, which was then hauled toward the pontoons, by the rope attached to it. Mary ran back toward the side gate but was unable to gain entry, as there was no one left in the restaurant to press the release button. She continued to shout John's name, as she shook and rattled the gate in a panic approaching hysteria. Heidi broke from the group on the pontoon, ran up the steps to the gate and released the lock. Mary stumbled through the gate and Heidi caught her in her arms, as she almost fell down the steps. The people on the pontoon dragged John from the water and he lay on his side, gasping and coughing. Heidi assisted Mary down the stone steps and across the bobbing, tilting wooden raft, to her husband's side. Mary dropped to the ground beside him, hugging him and crying his name, repeatedly, as the sound of an ambulance siren could be heard, approaching at speed.

ooOoo


	20. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Nineteen**

After an interesting day at the office, Mycroft returned to his country house, because he had guests there. He would normally only return at the weekends, staying in his flat in Cadogan Square during the week. He arrived home with just enough time to spare to shower and change for dinner. As he dressed in a crisp shirt and a freshly cleaned suit, he mused on the pleasures of having company, even if it was just Sherlock and family. Molly was always pleasant company and even Sherlock was capable of stimulating conversation, when he had a mind to be. William, of course, was a delight but he would be in bed by the time the grown-ups sat down to eat.

Mycroft usually dined alone and he had to admit that, sometimes, he wished he didn't. Even at the club, since conversation was against the rules, it was like eating alone. He had always maintained that, if one felt lonely when alone, it was because you were in bad company, but he had gradually changed that view, during Sherlock's absence, when he had frequently dined with Molly and William, in the flat he had found for them in Smithfield. He had come to look forward to his evenings in their company. Since Sherlock's return, he had gone there far less. It did not seem appropriate, any more. He wasn't sure why. Molly had made it clear that he was still welcome to come over as often as he wished but he felt that, with Sherlock being there, it changed the dynamic. It wasn't the same. If he were honest with himself, while Sherlock was away, he had, subconsciously, thought of Molly and William as his family. Now Sherlock was around again, it was too painfully obvious that they were, in fact, not.

He came down into the drawing room, for a pre-dinner drink, to find Molly and Sherlock already there. He greeted Molly with his usual peck on each cheek then shook Sherlock's hand. Molly still marvelled at the formality of the Holmes brothers' relationship. It always made her feel a little sad. They were both so emotionally repressed. The only emotions they expressed freely toward each other – well, that Sherlock expressed freely, at least – was anger. Mycroft rarely even expressed that. He would simply purse his lips and give his brother a disdainful look, which invariably, made Sherlock still more angry. She had noticed, however, that, ever since Sherlock's melt down at and flight from St Hugh's, the two men had seemed more tolerant of one another. Maybe there was hope for a full reconciliation, at some point in the not too distant future. Molly loved both men, each in their own way, and could see both sides of every argument. She hoped that, one day, there would be no – or, at least, far fewer – arguments.

Over dinner, they chatted, quite amicably. Molly had shown Mycroft the ultrasound image of the new Baby Hooper-Holmes in the drawing room and he had studied it closely, smiled, warmly, at the clearly evident thumb-sucking. While they ate, Mycroft asked the couple if they had any idea of names for their child, dependent upon its gender. Sherlock decided to be facetious and began suggesting some really ridiculous names – Pebbles for a girl or Bam-Bam for a boy; Homer and Marge; Belle and Bete; Odin and Bestla. After a stern look from Molly, he desisted, with a smirky grin. Molly made a mental note to give him a good telling off, when they were alone, for being so childish and disrespectful, when Mycroft was being so generous to them. She then informed their host that they had decided to wait until the child was born and choose something that suited his or her character. Molly had found, with William, that his character was very evident, pretty much from birth, if not before, so she was confident that a name would suggest itself before too long.

Sherlock wanted to know how the interrogations were going but Mycroft was rather reticent to discuss that subject. He said it was too early to tell. Sherlock was frustrated but knew that his brother would be constrained by the Official Secrets Act and unlikely to divulge much, even to the person who had helped identify the suspects. Conversation moved to more general topics and, when the meal was over, Mycroft excused himself and went to his study. Molly and Sherlock repaired to the drawing room, where Sherlock received his much deserved dressing down.

ooOoo

In his study, Mycroft found a small fire in the grate, a tumbler of his favourite single malt and a pile of post. One item drew his eye, immediately. It was a large, bulky envelope, with a Boston, Massachusetts, post mark. He put it to one side and opened all the other letters first. They were mostly bills or invoices, relating to the running of the estate. He scribbled notes in the margins, in his small, neat hand, and then transferred the individual documents to one or another of a number of folders, labelled with the names of the staff member who would deal with them, according to his annotated instructions – Andrew Lewis, butler; Mrs Willis, Housekeeper; Mrs Orgreave, Cook; Mr Austin, Game Keeper; Charles Meadows, Estate Manager. Having dealt with all the house and estate business, Mycroft turned, once again, to the package from Boston. He held the envelope in his hand, for some time, looking at it and sipping his whisky but, at last, he put down the glass, took up his silver letter knife, with the elephant head motif on the hilt, and slit the envelope open. The documents inside bore the mast head of a private clinic. He read the covering letter, then looked at the image of a scan, which showed two masses, each around six centimetres in length. He turned back to the letter and reread it, noting, particularly, the phrase 'no reduction'. He pursed his lips and stroked his chin, looking again at the scan image. He then shuffled through the other documents in the package, noting their contents, before returning them all to the envelope. He rose, crossed to the wall safe, opening it and placing the envelope inside. He then closed and relocked the safe and returned to his chair by the fire, taking up his glass again and sipping it, pensively.

ooOoo

Sherlock's phone rang out, just as he and Molly were about to go upstairs to bed. The caller ID showed that it was Greg Lestrade. Sherlock answered the call, with the anticipation that this might be a new case, requiring his attention. However, as he listened to the voice on the other end of the call, his facial expression changed.

'I'll be there within the hour,' he replied, shut off the call and turned to Molly.

'John's been assaulted.'

Calling Mycroft's name, he rushed from the room and through the house to Mycroft's study, barging in, without knocking. His brother was already on his feet, having heard Sherlock shouting his name. He listened as Sherlock relayed the information that Lestrade had given him. Mycroft responded by picking up the internal phone and dialling the number of Mr Orgreave, the chauffeur. He apologised for the late hour but explained that his brother needed to return to town on urgent business. Putting down the receiver, he advised Sherlock that the car would be at the front of the house in ten minutes. His brother ran upstairs to get his coat and scarf, then back down, to give Molly a hug and a gentle kiss, advising her to go to bed and promising to ring as soon as he had any news. Mycroft, who had come out of his study, put a comforting arm around Molly, as they both watched the red taillights of the car retreat, down the drive.

On his arrival at St Mary's hospital, Sherlock rushed in through the A and E entrance, straight up to Reception, telling the person on duty that he was here to see Dr Watson, who had been brought in earlier, by ambulance. The woman, who was a regular member of the A and E staff, recognised Sherlock as the friend of her colleague, the very popular Dr Watson, and ushered him straight through the security door, directing him to the appropriate treatment area, where he found a recumbent, immobile, pale-looking John, wrapped in several orange thermal blankets, and wearing a neck brace; and a very upset Mary, semi-reclining on a similar treatment couch, both wired up to vital signs monitors. On entering the room, Sherlock looked from one to the other, wondering who to go to first but, seeing Mary's tear-stained face, he went to her and enfolded her in a comforting hug. He did it without even thinking that his only previous physical contact with her had been a cursory peck on the cheek. She, however, was desperately in need of some physical comfort and clung to him, sobbing into his shoulder. He rubbed her back and pressed his cheek to the top of her head, making shushing sounds, as he would with William, but it seemed to have the desired effect, because, she gradually calmed down and, eventually, drew back from him. She squeezed his hand and said,

'Thank you, Sherlock, I really needed that.' Sherlock gave her a shy smile, feeling embarrassed but also rather surprised at himself, that he had read the situation correctly and done the right thing. He looked across toward John, still inert, with his eyes closed, then back to Mary.

'What happened?' he asked. She took a deep breath then described the attack.

'He wasn't in the water very long and didn't inhale much but he swallowed quite a bit and he hurt his neck, when he hit the water. He's been written up for a CAT scan but, apparently, there's a bit of a queue. He was conscious and talking on the way here but they gave him some very strong pain relief and he's been asleep for about half an hour.'

'And how are you?' he asked, taking her hand again and enclosing it in both of his.

'Oh, I just got hysterical,' she admitted, ruefully. 'I've never been in a situation like that before and it happened so suddenly, I was terrified. That awful man just picked John up and threw him into the water. John was so concerned with my safety, I don't think he even considered his own until it was too late. The man already had him in a bear hug.'

Not for the first time, Sherlock felt the pangs of guilt, for involving John in his dangerous occupation.

'I am so sorry this has happened, Mary, this is all my fault,' he berated himself.

'Don't talk bollocks,' came John's hoarse croak, from the couch, behind Sherlock. He turned, to see his friend peering at him, through bleary eyes. 'You've gone from one extreme to the other, you know. You'll be claiming responsibility for the double dip recession, in a minute. I think I preferred you when you had no concept of introspection at all.' Before Sherlock could respond, a nurse practitioner entered the room, accompanied by a porter. He smiled at Mary, nodded to Sherlock and spoke to John.

'The donut's free, John. George, here, will take you up for your scan.'

John would have nodded, had the neck brace permitted such an action.

'Do you want me to come with you?' Sherlock asked.

'No, you stay with Mary, please. She's got my baby in her belly and I don't want any harm to come to either of them. Think you can handle that?' John rasped, as the porter manoeuvred his gurney out of the room.

'I can but try,' Sherlock replied, watching his friend being wheeled out of sight.

The nurse practitioner then turned to Mary and checked the readings on the machine she was attached to.

'How are you feeling now?' he asked her, kindly.

'Much better, thanks. It was just the shock of it all that got to me,' she replied.

'Well, Junior seems to have settled down again,' the man said, checking the reading on a second unit, attached to the belt which, Sherlock had noted, was fastened around Mary's abdomen. He assumed it to be a foetal heart monitor.

'Got a bit excited for a moment or two but is probably having a nice little snooze now. I think we can get rid of all this paraphernalia,' the nurse concluded and proceeded to unfasten the belt and remove it. He also removed the clip from Mary's finger and silenced the bleeping machine.

'You're hot to trot, whenever you feel like it,' he advised her, 'though I expect you'll want to hang around for the old man, yeah?' Mary confirmed that she did.

'You wanna wait in the family room? It's more comfy than here and there's a drinks machine. I'll ask someone to come get you, when Jonno gets back.'

Mary sat up, swinging her legs off the couch and Sherlock offered his hand, to assist her to stand up. She smiled and took it, then picked up her handbag and allowed him to guide her, with a hand in the small of her back, out of the treatment room and along the unit to the family room, which was, mercifully, empty. He then made sure she was seated comfortably before asking her if she would like a drink. She asked for a bottle of water, which he obtained from the machine, having fished in his coat and trouser pockets to assemble the required amount of change. He then thought long and hard about whether to chance the venture, before putting in more coins and pressing the buttons for a black coffee, two sugars. He tasted it, tentatively, and found it to be not half bad, before sitting down in the chair next to Mary's and crossing his legs.

'He's right, you know,' Mary said. He looked at her, with puzzled creases showing between his eye brows.

'It really is not your fault this happened. Lestrade said that the Evans guy had been harassing customers and staff at the restaurant ever since he was told his daughter had drowned accidentally, whilst under the influence of a self-administered hypnotic. He's been arrested and cautioned no end of times. The next step was to have been taking out a restraining order against him but now he'll be charged with Assault, at the very least, GBH, possibly, maybe even attempted murder, though it would be hard to make that stick.' She smiled, sardonically.

'Just as long as John is alright,' Sherlock commented, glancing at the clock on the wall and wondering what was taking so long with the scan. Now it was Mary's turn to squeeze his hand and they both smiled at one another, relaxed in each other's company for the first time.

ooOoo


	21. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Twenty**

It was nearly an hour before the cheerful nurse practitioner popped his head round the door of the family room to announce that John was back from his scan. Mary had fallen asleep, curled up across two of the institutional easy chairs, exhausted by the stress and trauma of the evening's events. Sherlock debated, internally, how best to wake her but, eventually, opted for a gentle shake of her shoulder. She opened her eyes and blinked at him, disorientated, at first, and unsure where she was. Then, she remembered and sat up, rubbing her face with her hands.

'Oh, sorry, I must have dozed off. Is he back?' she asked.

'Apparently, yes. Would you like me to go and see what's happening?' Sherlock asked.

'No, it's OK, I'll come with you,' she replied and struggled to her feet. He put a hand on her shoulder to steady her and then followed her from the room and back to the treatment area. John was sitting up, on the gurney and the rigid neck brace had been removed but replaced by a soft collar, which offered some neck support but did not restrict his head movement as much as the other had.

He was now dressed in green scrubs, courtesy of one of his colleagues, and his clothes – wet, from his dunking in the canal – had been put into a large plastic sack, which sat on the bottom of the gurney. On entering the room, Mary crossed to him and they hugged one another for almost a minute – which felt like a very long time to Sherlock, who stood by the door, feeling rather uncomfortable to be the silent witness to this intimate moment. As the couple broke apart, John looked across at his friend and gave a weak smile, which Sherlock returned, then said,

'What did the scan show? Clearly nothing broken but why the collar?'

'Soft tissue damage, nothing permanent. I just need to rest it for a day or two and take pain killers and anti-inflamatories,' he explained, indicating a box of prescribed medication, lying on top of the gurney. 'Has Lestrade been in touch?'

'No. I thought he would be here but I haven't seen him at all. I expect he'll need a statement from both of you,' Sherlock replied.

'Yes, well, that can wait until tomorrow. We need to get home and get to bed,' John answered.

'I can give you a lift. I have Mycroft's car and driver outside. Are you clear to leave?' Sherlock asked. John nodded, then regretted doing so and winced, painfully.

'OK, shall we go?' Sherlock led the way back through the treatment area and out to the Reception, through the automatic doors and out onto the pavement. They had barely stepped out of the doors, when the black car drew up alongside of them and the chauffeur jumped out to open the doors. They climbed into the back, with Sherlock and Mary taking the window seats and John in the middle. The chauffeur placed the sack of wet clothes in the boot and they set off towards St John's Wood.

'Why do we always seem to come across these head cases, in our work, do you think?' John asked, with an edge of irony to his voice.

'Occupational hazard, I suppose,' Sherlock replied. 'I'll try not to give you any dangerous assignments in the future, shall I?'

'Don't ask me right now. I might say yes and then regret it later. I've been around you too long, Sherlock. I don't enjoy the boring cases, either. And when did you ever give a moment's consideration to looking out for me? It's usually the other way around, wouldn't you say?'

'Now, that's not strictly true. I did jump off the roof of St Bart's to save your life, remember? Although, it wasn't just your life, I'll admit. It was Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, too. And I think you're forgetting that I bought you dinner and arranged a date for you, with a very attractive young woman, just last week.' Sherlock turned to gaze out of the window at the streets of London, flashing by, oblivious to the effect that his last statement, intended only as light banter, had had on his friend and on his friend's wife. Mary, who had been relaxing against John's side, with his arm around her shoulders, had stiffened and sat more upright. John felt his stomach lurch and, suddenly, his skin was cold and clammy. He turned toward Mary and she was staring at him, with an odd expression on her face. She didn't say anything – she wouldn't, not it front of his friend – but he was in no doubt that she would be asking some serious questions when they got back home. He knew there was an innocent explanation but he was equally sure that she would argue, if the explanation was so innocent, why had he kept his trip to the cinema with the attractive young lady a secret from her? With a sinking feeling, John saw the entrance to their road come into view. The car turned in and stopped outside their building.

'Would you like me to come in with you?' Sherlock asked, innocently.

'No, thanks, mate. I think you've done enough for one night,' John replied, with an irony that was entirely lost on his brilliant but socially inept friend. The chauffeur got out, opened the car door and retrieved the sack of clothes from the boot. They all said goodnight to one another and Sherlock said he would be in touch the next day, then the car drove away, leaving John and Mary alone on the pavement. John turned toward his wife and said,

'I can explain, Mary.'

'Let's get inside, shall we?' replied Mary, in a tone which confirmed John's worst fears. She was not at all pleased.

ooOoo

As the car drove away from John and Mary's street, Sherlock took out his phone and dialled Greg Lestrade. The call went straight to Voice Mail, which could mean one of several things. The phone could be switched off, Lestrade could be on another call or the phone was in a signal black spot. Whatever the cause, it was frustrating for Sherlock and he shut off the call without leaving a message. He would let the DI call him, when he discovered the missed call. He settled back in the leather seat of Mycroft's car and his mind returned to the puzzle of the secret cadre that he had uncovered, at the Home Office. If the coded messages had been translated, he had not been advised of their content, so he couldn't even speculate about what the aims of the group may have been. He was aware that they had all been picked up from their homes on Saturday evening or Sunday morning and either interrogated or placed under suspension. Their phones would have been tapped, their homes bugged and their movements monitored by MI5 operatives. It would not take Mycroft's team long to crack them. None of them would have had any training in how to resist interrogation techniques and so they would break very easily. To all intents and purposed, the case was solved. So why did he still have a nagging suspicion that they were missing something? It was the leaked documents that did not seen to fit in. He knew he should visit his Mind Palace, to see if he could find any connection, but he could not go there.

He had not ventured there for quite some time – not since his debriefing in St Hugh's. The last time he went there, he had seen something so horrific, it had temporarily unhinged him. It had shaken the foundations of his self-image and his self-belief. Since then, he had been - yes, he had to admit it – afraid to expose himself to the possibility that it might happen again. The therapy sessions he had attended, with Eve Matthews, following his escape from St Hugh's and everything that happened after that, culminating in his thwarted attempt to jump off the Forth Bridge, had dealt with how he was coming to terms with the realisation that he had killed a young boy, whom he thought of as his friend, with his bare hands. He had dealt with that surprisingly well.

What those sessions had not touched on, however, was his fear that there may be other secrets locked away in his memory, which may be just as shocking. He had not voiced these fears to Dr Matthews - he had barely admitted them to himself. But every time a situation arose wherein he would, previously, have resorted to a trip to his Mind Palace, he had backed off and used alternative means to crack the clues. He knew that he was denying himself access to one of his most useful deductive tools but the fear was stronger than the urge to overcome it. He hadn't told anyone about this, not even Molly. Sitting in the dark, in the back of the speeding car, with his jaw resting on his right hand, he flicked his chin with his little finger – a small but telling sign of his internal agitation. He was angry with himself, with his own frailty and with his inability to ask for help to solve this problem. He needed to do something. The key to solving this current case, he knew, lay in his own mind. He could sense it lurking there, hear it, smell it, almost touch it. If only he could open the door and just walk in….. But even thinking about the prospect brought on the familiar Fight or Flight symptoms of a panic attack, as he began to hyperventilate, and he closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the head rest, feeling faint.

ooOoo

The car drew up in front of 'Mycroft Mansion', as John liked to call the Holmes' ancestral pile, and Sherlock climbed outr and thanked the chauffeur, Orgreave, for his services that night. He let himself into the house, through the front door and, crossing the hall towards the stairs, glanced down the side corridor to see a strip of light showing, under the door to Mycroft's study. He diverted and walked along to the door, knocking before entering. This had used to be his father's study and, in those days, he had only ever gone there to be punished for some misdemeanour or other. The general layout was pretty much the same now, although Mycroft had added a few personal touches, but it still remained, in Sherlock's mind, a place of apprehension and dread.

Mycroft was sitting in his favourite chair, beside the dead embers of the fire, and he looked up, as Sherlock walked in, looking startled and somewhat bleary-eyed. He had clearly been asleep, with his chin on his hand. He rallied quickly, though, and asked after John Watson. Sherlock crossed the room and sat in the matching chair on the other side of the fireplace, relating the events of the evening to his brother. As he spoke, he looked across at Mycroft, noting the tiredness in his eyes, the wrinkling between his eyebrows, the sagging of the skin around his jaw. On completing his report, he leaned forward and said,

'Mycroft, are you unwell?' Mycroft was rather taken aback by this expression of concern by his usually distant, confrontational brother. He gave a weak smile.

'It's been a very long and trying day, Sherlock, and tomorrow promises to be much the same. I just need to get to bed, I think, even for a few short hours. But thank you for your concern,' Mycroft replied. Both men stood up and Sherlock preceded his brother from the room, as Mycroft switched off the lights. They went up the stairs and bid one another goodnight, on the landing. Mycroft went off to his room, to the left, facing the front of the house, and Sherlock turned right and walked along to the guest rooms assigned to him and his family, overlooking the back of the house. He went through the second door, into William's room, and went over to the bed to check on his son. The child was sleeping soundly, his dark, tousled hair contrasting with the white of the pillow case and his dark lashes echoing that contrast, against his pale cheeks. Sherlock leaned over and dropped a light kiss on the boy's brow, then moved, noiselessly, into the bathroom, where he changed into his PJ's and t-shirt, brushed his teeth and splashed water on his face, to remove the London grime.

He then went through the other bathroom door, into Nelson, the room he shared with Molly. He moved to the bed, lifted the duvet and slipped in beside his sleeping partner, wrapping his arm around her and moulding his body to hers. She stirred and turned towards him, cuddling into his chest.

'Is John alright?' she murmured.

'Yes, he is now. Bit of a sore neck but nothing too serious,' he replied, hitching her leg over his hip and pulling her closer to him. This was his favourite sleeping position, nowadays, with their pelvises pressed together, in a completely non-erotic way. Being 'joined at the hip' held a special significance for him. He loved the sensation of Molly's body pressed to his, even through the medium of PJ's and a night dress, but now, it was even more special, because it meant the baby was pressed against him, too. He looked forward, with great anticipation, to being able to feel the baby move inside her body. He wanted to be as connected to the child as humanly possible, even before birth. It was already a separate entity to him, with a growing personality.

His thoughts returned to his problems in relation to his use of his Mind Palace. He knew it was ludicrous to be fearful of the power of his own mind. The Mind Palace was his own invention. He should be able access it as and when he saw fit. One thing was unequivocal. He could not let the situation persist. He should have dealt with it before now but, with all the things that had been going on recently – Molly's NVP, her mother's accident, the case of the drowned woman, Mycroft's odd behaviour and the crisis of the leaked secret document - these things had taken president. But this problem was severely hindering his ability to do what he did best - deduce. He resolved to talk to Molly. He trusted her judgement. She would help him deal with this. Decision made, he drifted off to sleep.

ooOoo


	22. Chapter 21

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Twenty One**

'Mr Holmes…..sir…..I swear, on my mother's life, I know nothing about the leaking of the document you refer to. I have told you everything I know about the Pressure Group and I accept that what we did was wrong but we were only reacting to the circumstances in which we found ourselves, in the department. We tried to effect change through more conventional means but everyone who spoke up found themselves hastily moved on – and, usually, in a downward direction, posted to some obscure position from which they never seemed to escape. We were playing against the system but our motives were honourable. We are all patriots, sir. We never intended any harm to the nation – quite the opposite, in fact. Espionage was never on our agenda.'

This impassioned plea was delivered with such sincerity by the Home Office junior minister's Permanent Secretary, that Mycroft Holmes was hard pressed to resist giving him a round of applause and a chorus of 'Land of Hope and Glory'. The man was preposterous. But, sadly, Mycroft believed, he was also telling the truth.

'Why, Mr Walsh, if you and your colleagues were concerned about the style of management prevailing in the Home Office, did you not voice your concerns outside the department, to those who may have been able to look into the situation? There are Whistle Blowing procedures in place in all government departments, are there not?' he asked.

'We didn't know who we could trust, sir. As I have said, those who did speak out were punished, by being sent to some political back water, never to be seen again. That happened several times before we decided to try an alternative approach,' the man countered.

'You could have come to me. Did you not consider that option?' Mycroft asked.

'We thought about it, sir, but we weren't sure if we could….trust you….sir,' he stuttered, under the icy scrutiny of the Holmesian gaze. The other members of the cadre, who were all looking exceedingly contrite, nodded their agreement with the spokesperson.

Following five days of intense interrogation of these several group members, Mycroft had gathered them all together, in the department conference room, to explain themselves. Their individual stories had all tallied. This 'conspiracy', this 'attempted coup' was, in fact, nothing more than a clandestine anti-bullying campaign. Once the actual content of the coded emails had been revealed, this became quite obvious. This revelation left him with several problems. One priority was to keep all knowledge of this group, and their misguided activities, from the press. Another was to deal with the managerial problems within the Home Office, without alerting the press and, therefore, alarming the public. The last, but by no means least, was to deal with the members of the group, in terms of what sanctions to apply, for their subversive activities. This would be a matter for the very highest authority, within the Government and the Civil Service, to address. He would be involved but it would not be his sole responsibility.

Mycroft steepled his fingers and gazed around the room, at all the anxious faces, then he rose, thanked them all for their co-operation and summarily dismissed them. They all shuffled out of the room, muttering amongst themselves, many sighing with relief, some speculating about what might happen next. As the door closed behind them, Mycroft rubbed his face with his hands and breathed a frustrated sigh. The mystery of the leaked security plans still remained. He believed that it had been a catalyst for the discovery of the secret cadre but he was still none the wiser as to who had been responsible for its being leaked or what their actual aims had been in leaking it. He was at a loss to know what they hoped to gain, other than a boost to their bank balance, perhaps, but the leak had been detected so quickly that even that possibility seemed unlikely. The mystery remained unsolved.

ooOoo

'I just don't think it's a good idea, Sherlock. I'm no expert in these techniques. Eve Matthews is the person you should be talking to, surely?' Molly was not happy with Sherlock's suggestion.

He had waited all day, until William was in bed and they were sitting, on the sofa in the drawing room, awaiting the dinner bell, to bring up the subject of his difficulties accessing his Mind Palace. She was concerned, but not necessarily surprised, to hear that he was still suffering after-effects of his memory revelations. It had only been three months since his sessions with Eve Matthews, at St Hugh's, had opened the door to those suppressed memories and, although he was still attending therapy sessions, she knew him well enough to know that he would not have found it easy to bare his sole in those sessions. It had taken this long for him to open up even to her. It was his inability to get to grips with this case of Mycroft's that had brought things to a head. He felt that he could have solved the mystery of the security leak days ago, if he had been able to use the Mind Palace technique. Had this case not cropped up, it was more than likely he would not be telling her, even now.

'No, Molly, I really do not want to talk to Eve Matthews about this. I don't think she's the right person for this job,' Sherlock insisted.

'Neither am I,' Molly replied, gripping his hand and trying to convey how the very idea of taking on the role of his therapist terrified her.

'You are the very best person for the job,' he repeated, gazing imploringly into her eyes, with an intensity she found quite overwhelming. 'You know me better than anyone – better than I know myself – and you are familiar with the technique. You've been through it yourself.'

'Going through it myself and guiding someone else through it are two entirely different things, Sherlock. And, even if that were somehow a magic qualification, your situation is completely different to mine,' she retorted.

'In what way? You were afraid to go somewhere, I'm afraid to go somewhere. She just held your hand; you did all the actual work. That's all I want you to do – hold my hand.' The pleading in his eyes and voice was almost too much to bear.

'But, Sherlock, I was able to rehearse my tour of the flat by doing it my head, loads of times, beforehand. It took me lots of attempts before I was able to do it, even in my head, without having the worst panic attack imaginable. Your…scary place….is in your head to begin with, therefore, you can't rehearse. The first time you go there, it will be for real. What if something goes wrong?'

'What could go wrong?' he asked.

'You could go into meltdown, like you did at St Hugh's,' she breathed, hardly daring to voice her greatest fear.

He stared, deep into her eyes, for several moments, then leaned forward and, placing his hands along her jaw line, drew her towards him, kissing her with an intensity that took her breath away. She combed her fingers into his hair and returned his kiss with equal intensity, only breaking apart when they were both at risk of suffocation. He smoothed her hair away from her forehead and searched her eyes again, then whispered.

'If I throw up and then invite you to go for a walk in the grounds, handcuff me to the bed.'

'That might just make me hope it all goes wrong,' she replied, and they both dissolved into giggles. But then Molly's face sobered again and she said,

'Seriously, Sherlock, what if something were to go wrong?'

'I can't think of anyone I'd rather have there, if it did. You are my anchor, Molly, you will hold me in place, you'll keep me from being washed away,' he answered, with absolute, naked sincerity. She laid her hand upon his cheek, stroked along his jaw, ran her finger tips across his full, smooth lips then wrapped her arms around his torso and pressed her cheek to his chest. He rested the side of his head against the top of hers and folded her in his arms.

'Promise me this, then,' she spoke, at last. He drew his head back to look down into her eyes.

'You will practice the relaxation techniques that Eve Matthews taught you – we'll practice them together – until I'm satisfied that you can control the panic. Once I'm convinced, then we'll do it, OK?'

'OK,' he agreed, solemnly, looking just like William, then replaced his head on hers and they held each other, without speaking, until the dinner bell sounded.

ooOoo

'Mary, I am sorry. I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am,' John exhorted.

'I know you're sorry, John. I'm just not sure what you're sorry about.'

Mary was every inch the barrister, as she fixed John with an eviscerating glare. She had flatly refused to have this discussion the night before, insisting that she was too tired. She had gone straight to bed and presented him with an uninviting rear view, when he climbed in beside her. He had lain in the dark, staring at the invisible ceiling, until exhaustion and painkillers had their way and he slept, fitfully, until the morning. He was roused from sleep when Mary got out of the bed and went about her morning routine as normal, in every way, except that she behaved as though he weren't there. She left the flat without even saying goodbye. John got up just long enough to take more pain relief, then crawled back between the sheets and slept, solidly, for the next eight hours, though his dreams were strange and vaguely disturbing. He got up at around four in the afternoon, showered and shaved, dressed and put on his soft supportive collar, then went into the kitchen to take more pills and begin preparing supper.

Mary arrived home just before six o'clock and acknowledged John with a tight smile. He poured her a large glass of water, as a companion to his glass of merlot, and she came and sat at the kitchen table, signalling that she was ready to hear him out.

'It wasn't a date. It was a red herring,' he began. She remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

'Sherlock needed to have a secret meeting with Mycroft's PA and she was being followed by MI5 so I had to go to the cinema and she came there, too, but she changed places with her lookalike, in the Ladies, so I watched the film with the lookalike, being watched by the MI5 agents, while she met up with Sherlock. Then she came back and swapped places with the lookalike and I walked her to the main road, to get a cab. That was it. It was just work.' He came to a halt and took a deep breath. Mary continued to stare at him, in silence.

'Mary, I am sorry. I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am,' he exhorted.

'I know you're sorry, John. I'm just not sure what you're sorry about,' she replied. He wished she wouldn't use her barrister's logic on him. It sort of reminded him of arguments he had had with Sherlock, in the past.

'Are you sorry that you didn't tell me or sorry that I found out?' she demanded.

'I'm sorry that you found out the way you did. I'm sorry I didn't tell you about it, at the time…' he elaborated.

'Why didn't you?' she asked, with her court room face, if not her court room voice. He half expected to hear her say 'I put it to you….'

'I didn't want you to be upset,' he explained.

'You didn't want me to be upset? So what do you think I am now, ecstatic?' she snapped. John closed his eyes, pursed his lips and blew a long breath through his nose, then continued.

'I didn't want you to worry because of the nature of the case. What Sherlock was doing was illegal. I didn't want you to be compromised, professionally.' He paused and looked to see if his words were having any effect. Not yet.

'I thought that what you didn't know couldn't harm you….professionally, I mean,' he added, quickly.

'Ignorance is no defence, in the eyes of the law,' Mary pronounced, still looking stern, though her voice had softened a little. He decided to chance his luck and reached out to touch her hand, where it rested, on the table. She saw his intention and removed her hand immediately, placing it in her lap.

'You're not off the hook yet, John Watson. When people marry, they make a commitment to love, honour and respect one another. Keeping secrets, in my opinion, violates that commitment. It shows a lack of respect, how ever well-intentioned it might have been. It suggests to me that you did not trust me to react appropriately to the news that you had spent the evening in a darkened cinema with a pretty girl. I would have hoped you knew me better than that. I would have hoped you trusted me to trust you. You didn't have to tell me why you had to meet this girl, you only had to tell me that you had. The fact that you didn't, speaks volumes. It tells me, not only that you don't trust me but also that you don't think I trust you. Relationships are based on trust. If we don't trust one another, what are we doing bringing this child into the world?' she concluded.

And at that point, the barrister disappeared, her face crumpled and she pushed herself away from the table, turned and ran toward the bedroom, sobbing into her hand. John stood in the kitchen, open-mouthed, and feeling like the worst kind of bastard, imaginable.

ooOoo


	23. Chapter 22

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Twenty Two**

John combed his fingers through his hair and inhaled sharply. He wanted to follow Mary into the bedroom but he had no idea what to say to her. He had messed up so badly. She was completely right. He must not have trusted her to trust him. The realisation was paralysing. He sat down at the table and put his head in his hands. He wanted to cry but he couldn't even do that. The supper was over-cooking. He caught the faint whiff of burning but he could not react to it. It seemed ridiculously unimportant. His life was in chaos and it was entirely his fault. Trust was a fragile thing. Once lost, it was virtually impossible to regain. He sat, in a stupor, whilst the supper burned.

ooOoo

Sherlock and Molly lay, together, on top of the duvet, on the bed, in their room. William slept in the room next door. Sherlock's legs were crossed at the ankles and his hands rested on his diaphragm. His eyes were closed. Molly lay on her side, facing him, her left hand resting on his chest. She could feel the regular beat of his heart and the equally regular rise and fall of his chest, as he breathed. He was keeping to his side of the bargain and practicing the relaxation techniques that Eve Matthews had taught him, as part of his therapy.

He was not the sort who found relaxation easy. Even in repose, his mind was usually active. If his mind were inactive, his body was usually tense. Relaxation of body and mind together was anathema to him. She was impressed with how well he was doing. Emptying his mind of conscious thought whilst releasing the tension in his torso and limbs had taken a monumental effort but she knew he was highly motivated to succeed. Until he solved the puzzle of who had leaked the security plans, they could not go back home. It wasn't safe. They were, effectively, prisoners – in Paradise. This was a beautiful house, surrounded by a green idyll, but Molly missed her work, William was becoming bored and wanted to go back to school and Sherlock was too much reminded of his childhood to want to spend any length of time in this place of bad memories.

Molly watched him, in his state of suspended animation, reassured and apprehensive in equal measures, thinking about the next part of their bargain. She would need all her courage and fortitude to assist him in his task. He had far more faith in her abilities than she had herself. He had assured her that she would know what to say and what to do and when to say and do it. She would have to trust his judgement. He was usually right about most things. The thought that he could be spectacularly wrong, on occasion, was unhelpful, so she dismissed it from her mind.

ooOoo

Mycroft was in his flat, in Knightsbridge, enjoying a quiet evening, alone. He was also expecting a phone call, from Boston. He sat by the fireplace, sipping his single malt and mulling over the events of the day. The landline rang out and he reached over to pick up the receiver.

'Mycroft Holmes,' he announced to his caller. 'Ah, good evening, Doctor, or rather, I should say good afternoon. I believe you have an update for me?' He then listened intently to the voice at the other end of the line for several moments before saying,

'It is never very convenient for me to be away from my responsibilities but it appears to be imperative that I pay you a visit. I could come over at the weekend, but I would need to be back by Monday morning. If that time frame meets your approval, then I am at your disposal.' He listened again to the caller then replied,

'Then I look forward to seeing you on Saturday morning, Doctor. The five hour time difference will work to my advantage, on the outward journey, at least. An over-night flight should have me with you by nine a.m., your time.' Another pause and then,

'Yes, and goodbye to you, Doctor.' He hung up the phone and sat back in his chair, sipping and thinking.

ooOoo

The ringing of his phone broke into John's reverie and he took it from his pocket, noting that the caller was Greg Lestrade. He also noted that the supper was, indeed, about to become a conflagration. He quickly switched off the oven and pulled open the door, to allow the heat to dissipate. Unfortunately, this also released a huge pall of dark smoke, which, only seconds later, set the smoke alarm whooping. He rushed to open the kitchen window, even as he answered Lestrade's call.

'Bloody hell, mate, you got an emergency situation there, or what?' Lestrade exclaimed.

'More than you could imagine,' was John's rye response. He was waving the oven gloves under the smoke alarm, trying to clear the air and shut off the wailing siren. It was into this maelstrom that Mary emerged from the bedroom, looking tearstained, dishevelled and alarmed. She took in the scene, gave John a hard look and returned to the bedroom. The alarm stopped shrieking and John sat back down at the table.

'What can I do for you, Greg?' he asked, with a tone of deep resignation.

'Well, I was just wondering how you were, for starters. Sorry I didn't make it to the hospital last night but Mr bloody Evans led us quite a dance. He decided to make a run for it and we finished up having to chase him half way across Essex. We got him, though. He's been processed and charged and remanded in custody, in Brixton.'

'Well, I'm sorry you had such a hard job catching the crazy bastard but I'm glad he's locked up, for now, at least,' John replied.

'So what's the damage, mate?' Lestrade asked, solicitously.

'Worse than you could possible imagine, to be honest, but only some of it physical,' John growled. There was a long pause at the other end of the call, as Greg Lestrade tried to make sense of what his friend had said.

'Sorry, John, you've lost me there. Are you feeling OK?' Greg enquired.

'Oh it's my fault, Greg, I'm not making much sense, am I. I have a soft tissue injury to my neck so I'm on pretty strong pain killers. That's the extent of my physical injuries,' John explained.

'And the non-physical ones?' Greg prompted, not missing the significance of John's earlier comment.

'All self-inflicted, I assure you,' John was back to being cryptic.

'Would you like me to come over, John? You don't sound like yourself. Is Mary there?' Greg was quite concerned now. He was reminded of some of the conversations he had had with John during the earlier days of Sherlock's 'demise' and it was not a welcome comparison.

'No, mate, really, I'm fine – well, not fine but it's something I need to deal with on my own. Mary and I have had a spat and it really is all my fault so I've got to sort it out myself,' John assured his friend.

'Well, good luck with that, mate. But I do need a statement from you and Mary, soonest, so we can start preparing the case against your assailant,' Greg replied.

'Sure thing, Greg. I'll talk to Mary – if she'll listen to me – and we'll arrange to come in, if you like,' said John.

'Or we can send someone to you, if it's easier,' Greg offered.

'OK, thanks. I'll let you know.'

Both men said goodbye and shut off the call.

John was grateful for Lestrade's call. It gave him a purpose and an ulterior motive to talk to Mary.

ooOoo

Sherlock and Molly were in the bath. They didn't usually take baths – and certainly not together - as their bath, in their en suite at home, was less than full size, so only useful for solitary bathing and, since they both favoured a morning shower, the subject of a shared bath had never come up. But the Jack and Jill bathroom boasted a large, free-standing, roll top bath, with a telephone shower attachment situated in the middle of one side. Following his relaxation session, Sherlock was feeling unusually mellow and it was at his suggestion that they had embarked on this new experience. With his back resting against the end of the bath and Molly reclining against him, Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled the fragrance of the expensive guest bubble bath, revelling in the restorative power of the warm water as he slowly smoothed his lips, from the nape of her neck to the point of Molly's shoulder.

'This would make a perfect birthing pool,' Molly observed.

'Hmmm?' he replied.

'Yes,' Molly continued. 'I've been doing some research about it. It sounds like a beautiful way to give birth. I think I would like to have a home birth.'

'Hmmm,' he replied.

'Sherlock, are you listening to me?' she asked.

'Hnnn' he replied, gnawing at her shoulder, languidly. 'You said you would like to have a home birth and you thought that a water birth would be beautiful.'

'Yes, I do…..,' she murmured, feeling her pulse rate rise at the husky quality of his voice. She rolled over and straddled his hips, placing her hands on his shoulders and gazing at him, with smouldering eyes. Their eyes locked and she watched as his pupils expanded.

ooOoo

John walked into the bedroom.

Mary,' he said. 'That was Greg Lestrade on the phone. We need to give statements, about last night.'

She was curled up, under the duvet, with her back to him. She did not respond. He sat on the edge of the bed.

'Mary, please look at me,' he pleaded. Still no response.

'Mary, I am so sorry. I was wrong, completely wrong not to tell you. And you are right; a relationship is based on trust – mutual trust. I should have told you about being at the cinema with the girl. I don't know why I didn't.' He paused but she still gave no indication that she had even heard what he said, though he knew she had.

'Well, actually, I do know why. I felt guilty, even though I knew I had absolutely nothing to feel guilty about, I still did.' He paused again. There was a slight movement under the duvet, nothing more.

'I am an idiot, I know that. Sherlock has told me often enough, but I never really believed him but, now, I know he was right, all along. I am stupid. I must be, to risk losing you, someone as wonderful as you; to risk losing what we have together. But Mary, please believe me when I say that I never doubted you. That's not why I didn't tell you. I never even considered…it never even occurred to me…that you wouldn't trust me.' He could hear the desperation in his own voice and he could feel the pain in his chest – the anguish of loss, the agony of desolation. He'd felt that pain before, when a certain consulting detective had jumped off a high building, right before his eyes. This felt like that. He felt her slipping away from him and he couldn't conceive of life without her.

'Mary, please,…I'm not clever with words. I can't tell you how it feels to know that I have hurt you so badly. I can't even begin to express how much I despise myself for causing you pain.' He paused again, as she rolled onto her back and looked at him, in the dim glow from the sitting room light, through the open door.

'But, Mary what's done is done. I can't change the past. I wish I could. But I can change the future and I promise you, if you will forgive me, just this once, and give me a second chance, I will never do anything to hurt you, ever again. Never.' He sat, looking at her, a picture of abject hurt and apology, exposed to her scrutiny, offering up his soul, for sacrifice, if she saw fit. After what seemed to him like an interminable age, but which was only a few seconds, she sat up and reached out her hand to him. He took it and pressed it to his lips and he felt tears spring into his eyes and begin to trickle down his face; tears of relief, of shame and of contrition. She drew him towards her and he lay down on the bed, as she took him in her arms and held him close. All the stress of the preceding twenty-four hours bubbled to the surface and his chest heaved with stifled sobs. She poured comfort into his ear and breathed forgiveness into his heart. And, as his breathing calmed and his shoulders relaxed, she took his hand and placed it on her belly, holding it there, as she whispered,

'Can you feel it, John? I felt it. I felt our baby move.'

ooOoo


	24. Chapter 23

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Twenty Three**

When Mycroft returned home on Thursday evening, he brought Sherlock's laptop and home hub with him. Sherlock took the laptop from him and held it to his chest, stroking it, unconsciously, as one might stroke a much loved pet, recently returned from the vet, following a serious health scare. Sherlock had really missed his laptop. Molly's was far too slow and he really could not abide her choice of desktop image. He had no idea who this actor fellow was, with the Medieval sounding name, and he disagreed completely with Molly's assertion that he, himself, bore a strong resemblance to the man. However, whenever he alluded to that matter, she just giggled and suggested that perhaps he should try personalising his own desktop. He knew that this was irony, since his desktop was a diagrammatic representation of Newton's Laws of Motion and they didn't come more personal than that. There were still many things that he did not understand about the minds of women, in general, and Molly, in particular, and probably never would.

'Was it bugged?' he asked, with a slight note of apprehension in his voice.

'Not exactly,' Mycroft replied. 'It was infected.' Here, he paused, possibly for dramatic effect, as he saw the look of horror on Sherlock's face.

'Yes, it was a very clever little worm that attached itself to your email account and sent copies of your emails – both sent and received – to another account. It was also able to email reports of all your actions – which is how the recipient knew you had copied the files onto the pen drive. It took quite a bit of finding, which is why the tech people had your laptop for so long, but they got it, in the end. It is now completely clean of anything untoward – though, I have to say, some of your files did raise some eyebrows,' Mycroft concluded.

'I hope they didn't delete anything,' Sherlock bridled. Mycroft gave him an old-fashioned look – one he had been giving him for most of their shared existence – but shook his head.

'No, brother dear, you were afforded special consideration, due to your relationship to me. Consider yourself very fortunate.'

Mycroft then went on to advise Sherlock and Molly that he would not be at home for the weekend.

'I'm going away. I will leave straight from the office on Friday and return straight to the office on Monday morning, so you will have this place to yourselves for the weekend. Do try not to burn the house down,' he added, just to annoy his sibling.

That night, in bed, Sherlock advised Molly that Friday evening, after William was put to bed, he would enter his Mind Palace.

'It's the perfect opportunity,' he explained. 'There will be no one else here, to interrupt or get in the way.' Molly looked at him, apprehensively.

'And by 'no one else', you mean Mycroft,' she proffered.

'Exactly,' he confirmed.

'And that is a good thing because?' she queried

'Because he wouldn't approve of us going it alone, without Eve Matthews here,' he explained.

'But I do sort of agree with him,' Molly declared. He stroked her cheek and gazed into her eyes.

'We've been over this, Molly. You know what I think – what I believe – is the best approach,' he murmured.

'Don't think for one minute that I don't know what you're doing here, Sherlock Holmes,' she chided. 'You've used your masculine wiles on me once too often. I'm not so easily won over these days,' though she knew she really was. He smiled that charming, innocent, little boy smile and kissed her, softly, tenderly, seductively. And she knew she was lost.

ooOoo

At his desk, the next morning, Mycroft heard the soft knock that always heralded Anthea's appearance in the room and he called,

'Come in,' and looked up, smiling at his PA.

'I've booked your flights, sir,' she announced. 'With BA. I've put you in the same hotel as your last visit, and you have the Sleeper Service, for your return flight, so you will be able to get some rest, before you come into work. I hope that meets your approval,' she concluded, meeting his gaze.

'Completely, as ever, my dear,' he replied. She nodded and left the room, closing the door behind her. He knew she would be the soul of discretion. She was the only other person, this side of the Atlantic, who knew where he was going and where he had gone before. Perhaps she had even guessed why he went there but she had never asked and he knew she would never discuss the matter with anyone else.

ooOoo

John and Mary sat opposite one another, across their kitchen table, and raised their glasses to one another. The smell of burning had almost disappeared from the flat, although some of the soft furnishings still retained a hint of cremated casserole. Mary sipped her glass of water and reached across the table for John's hand. She loved him for who he was and if that included the silly man who felt guilty just for sitting in a public place with a woman who was not his wife, then, really, she should be grateful that was the worst of his sins. He was a soldier and a doctor and a very loving man. He was not an intellectual or a philosopher, he didn't over-analyse things. He was a man of action, who reacted to situations and circumstances, sometimes on impulse, and might not always get it right. But his intensions were pure, she knew that, and she also knew that she had over-reacted to Sherlock's faux pas, probably because she was hormonal. She had apologised to John for that. They were fine again. She had forgiven him and she did trust him. End of story.

This little meal was in celebration of Jelly Bean making his/her presence felt on a regular basis. Mary had felt the baby move several times now and, although it was still too small to be detected from the outside, it was very noticeable from the inside. It made little wriggling movements, like a fish, perhaps, or an eel. Maybe she was brooding an Olympic swimmer, a Rebecca Adlington or an Ian Thorpe? Looking at John's stature, she doubted that – although children usually ended up taller than their mother, and she was quite tall for a woman. She wouldn't mind if their baby became an athlete. She wouldn't mind what their baby became, as long as it was healthy and happy. She had no doubt whatsoever that it would be loved, since it already was, passionately.

ooOoo

Sherlock was standing in a familiar place – the virtual hallway of his Mind Palace. It had taken three attempts to get this far. On the previous two tries, he had begun to hyperventilate, broken into a cold sweat and felt nauseous. He had had to retreat, go back through the relaxation technique, steady his breathing, slow his heart rate, calm his nerves. This time, he had made it past the threshold. He stood still now, looking round at all the closed doors. He would have to open every one of those doors, turn on the lights, walk inside, take a good look around, as though checking for intruders. He was buoying himself up for that task, right now. He could feel Molly's hand holding his, hear her voice – quiet, calm, and substantial. She was telling him that he was fine, that he was doing really well and that she was right there with him. She was his lifeline. She held him secure. He moved toward the first door and pushed it open.

He opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling. Molly was sitting on the bed, next to him, still holding his hand. He looked at her and she smiled.

'Welcome back,' she said.

'How long have I been gone?' he asked, aware that it must have been a while, although time had no relevance inside his mind, but he could tell by the temperature in the room and the quality of light coming through the window that it was more than a matter of minutes.

'About four hours,' she answered. He sat up and reached out to touch her.

'And you've been sitting there, all that time? Molly, I am so sorry!' he exclaimed.

'Don't be, I'm not,' she assured him, 'It's been quite fascinating. I've never seen you in your Mind Palace before. It's like an out of body experience, isn't it? You really do go somewhere else.'

'That's one reason why I don't really like to do it in front of people. It must seem a bit weird,' he admitted. She nestled up against him and gave a small laugh.

'Since when has appearing weird ever bothered you, Sherlock? You love being weird,' she teased.

'Enigmatic and mysterious,' he corrected her, 'not weird.'

'So, did you find what you were looking for?' she asked, as they both relaxed back against the pillows.

'Yes, I think I did,' he replied, closing his eyes, feeling exhausted but also relieved that he had explored every inch of his inner self and not found any more demons. What he had found had surprised but not shocked. It was rather obvious, now. How could he have missed it, before? But that was what the Mind Palace was for. It was a place of pure logic, where he could formulate and test hypotheses. And, once he had excluded the impossible, he knew that what remained, however improbable, must be the truth. It must be the truth.

ooOoo

Anthea was sitting in her dressing gown, at her kitchen table, enjoying a late breakfast of pate on toast, when she heard her text alert sound from the sitting room. She got up and wandered in, picking up her phone to check the ID of the texter. It was Sherlock Holmes. The text read:

'Can we meet? Urgent. SH'

She looked at the text, thought about her plans for the day but then shrugged and replied:

'OK. When and where?'

The reply made her smile.

'Now. I'm just outside. SH'

She might have known.

She went to the door of her flat and looked at the security screen, to see the face of her boss's brother staring at her. She pressed the release button to admit him to the building, waited a reasonable amount of time for him to climb two flights of stairs and then opened her flat door to admit him. He strode across the landing and in through the open door.

'Good morning, Sherlock, would you like some coffee?' she asked.

'Black, two sugars, please,' was his brisk reply.

She led the way back to the kitchen and took down a second mug, pouring coffee from the caffetiere and adding the two sugars before handing the mug to him, across the table, where he had seated himself, eyeing her pate on toast, with curiosity.

'One should always have protein for breakfast,' she volunteered. He looked at her then gave his head a slight shake, as though to get on task.

'Do you happen to have any access to covert surveillance equipment, for body wear?' he asked, straight out.

'That would depend on what you had in mind,' she replied.

'I want to talk to someone and secretly record the conversation, for evidence,' he explained.

'Such evidence would be inadmissible in court,' she advised him.

'Not a problem. I don't expect this would ever get to court, in the usual sense. I just need proof of something,' he stated.

'Then you don't need me. You have the means to achieve that already.'

He looked at her, with a furrowed brow.

'In your pocket,' she elaborated. 'Your smart phone.' He looked surprised. He hadn't thought of that. Well, in that case…..

'However,' she continued, 'what are you planning to do about backup?' He furrowed his brow again.

'Sherlock, are you proposing to confront the person behind all this espionage, the very person who had you Tasered and try to trick them into revealing their guilt, and then, into letting you just walk away, unscathed, - without any back up?' she asked.

'Well, I wouldn't put it exactly like that…' he began.

'Sherlock, that is exactly what you are proposing,' she interjected. 'You know, for a clever man, you are unbelievably stupid.' He looked offended but he knew she was quite correct.

'Do you have an alternative plan?' he asked.

'Fortunately for you, I do,' she replied.

ooOoo


	25. Chapter 24

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Twenty Four**

'You know, Sherlock, I really feel you should wait until Mycroft gets back and tell him what you know, let him deal with it.'

'Do you know where he's gone?' Sherlock asked. She nodded.

'Do you know why he's gone there?'

'No, I don't but even if I did, I wouldn't tell you. That would be a betrayal of trust.'

'Can you contact him?'

'In an emergency, yes. Why?'

'Just so I know. As for waiting, my family and I have been holed up in that house for the last week and I need to do something about that so, if you are willing to help me, I am grateful for all the help I can get, but if you aren't willing to help me, I'm going to do it anyway.'

'You do appreciate how completely out of your depth you are, don't you?' It was more of a statement than a question. He met her gaze and pursed his lips, then gave a small shrug.

'Good, I'm glad we agree on that. I think you are insane but, if I can't deter you, then I have to assist you, for Mycroft's sake, since you are his brother and I know how much he loves you.'

Sherlock gave her a sceptical look but he knew she was speaking the truth; it was just hard for him to admit it.

'Right, let's start from the beginning. Where were you intending to meet your target?' It was fascinating to Sherlock to see how completely Anthea had slipped straight back into the role of a field agent. He was impressed. She had barely batted an eyelash when he told her his deduction. She could see the logic of it but she agreed that they needed proof to take this any further. She had agreed that a meeting was probably their best option and that recording the evidence was going to be necessary. What she had not agreed on was the necessity to do it right there and then, but that was clearly not up for discussion. So now they were planning their operation.

'I hadn't decided,' he replied. 'Where would you suggest?' He was happy to trust her judgement on this. This was her area of expertise, after all.

'It has to be on your terms, therefore on your ground. You do not go to them, they must come to you,' she stated.

'What if they won't come?' he asked.

'I think they will, out of curiosity, if nothing else. They most likely believe they are above suspicion and that this meeting is for you to give information to them, not the other way round. So, when you present your evidence, you will give no indication that you know they are implicated. They will want to know what you know, so they can gauge how vulnerable they are.'

He nodded his agreement.

'They must not suspect that they are being recorded. That would blow your cover right out of the water. They might have anti-surveillance equipment with them, just as a precaution, so they must not detect a transmitter of any sort on you. They might ask you to switch off your mobile phone. That's why you need this.' She opened her hand and showed him a tiny device that was about the size of a tic-tac. It looked like it was made of glass but he recognised it as silicon. He glanced from it to her and back to it.

'Nano-technology, what can I say?' she said, by way of an explanation.

'What does it do?' he asked, fascinated.

'It's a microchip, like the ones people get put in their pets, so they can be identified and returned to them, if they're stolen or lost. They are also, now, routinely placed in clothing and other kinds of merchandise, so it can be tracked from manufacturer to retail outlet, for the purpose of stock control, but also as an anti-shoplifting device. If your clothing is mass produced, you probably have several on you already.' He looked at her with distaste, at the phrase 'mass produced'. As if he would wear anything not tailor made!

'So why do I need one?'

'So that it can be found.' She paused and watched his face, seeing that he followed her reasoning. Then she nodded, 'Yes, exactly. If you give them what they expect to find, they might stop looking. If they detect a tracking device but find this, in the lining of your coat, for example, they may assume that it's a normal stock-control microchip. It isn't.'

'What does it do?'

'Once I've synched it with your phone, it will enable me to control the phone from my laptop. After you have switched it off, you put it back in your jacket pocket, then I switch it back on and set it to record your conversation, using the Voice Memo app.'

'What if they want to remove it from the lining of my coat?'

'Tell them how much your coat cost and put it in another room, as a compromise. It has a considerable range – much greater than you would think. It'll still operate your phone.'

Ok,' he nodded. 'Anything else I should know?'

'Yes,' she replied, going back into her box of tricks and taking out a rubber wrist band, like the ones charities sell, to raise money and awareness. 'I want you to wear this.' He took it from her hand and looked at it then looked to her for an explanation.

'It's a pulse rate monitor. You wear it on your wrist. It has a bio-feed loop embedded into it. It transmits your pulse rate.'

'Why would I need to transmit my pulse rate?'

'So I know you're still alive,' she stated, bluntly. He looked to her for elaboration. 'If your pulse rate increases or decreases dramatically, I will know that something has gone wrong and will be able to do something to help you. Otherwise, you could be dead and I'd be none the wiser. If you'd been wearing one of these when you were Tasered, I would have known about it.'

'What if they ask me to take it off?'

'Let's hope they don't. If you keep it covered by your watch, hopefully, they won't even know it's there. It's just a precaution. I'm not saying anyone is going to try to kill you, but I just like to cover all the bases.'

'That's most reassuring,' he replied.

They went on to discuss how the conversation should be steered and what needed to happen, if or when all the necessary information had been obtained.

'I intend to tell them everything I know, apart from the bit about them being the suspect. I'll say I've come to them, in Mycroft's absence, as the next best thing, as I don't think this can wait until he returns.'

'They have to believe you are working alone. If they suspect you have any sort of back up, they will probably abort before you can obtain any evidence at all.'

'What if, after I've told them everything I know, they just say 'Thank you very much, Mr Holmes' and walk out of the door?'

'Then we have to sit tight and wait for the shit to hit the fan. If nothing else, you will have given them pause for thought but I think it will provoke a reaction.'

They went on to consider all possible contingencies and to make plans to deal with them all.

'If, at any point, you think your cover is blown, we need an Abort word or phrase, so I know you need to be rescued. Can you think of one?'

He thought about this for a moment or two, then said,

'Molly will be wondering where I am.'

'Is that it, your Abort phrase?' She just wanted to be sure. He nodded.

'OK, that's fine. If I hear you say 'Molly will be wondering where I am', I charge in, all guns blazing.' She smiled at him and he grimaced back.

'OK, if you are really determined that you're going to do this thing, You'd better make your call and set up the meet.'

He nodded and took out his mobile phone.

ooOoo

Sherlock sat in his favourite chair in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street, waiting for his guest to ring the doorbell. He had told Mrs Hudson that he was expecting a visitor and that he would let them in. He had asked her to stay out of sight, that he didn't want her to see the person who was coming, for her own safety. In fact, he had said, it might be better if she went out altogether. Mrs Hudson had put on her coat and taken herself off, to visit a friend.

The doorbell rang and Sherlock took a deep breath and walked down the stairs to answer it. When he got to the bottom of the stairs, he put on his coat, to look as though he had just arrived himself, then opened the front door. He looked down at his visitor.

'Good afternoon, Mr Holmes, how nice to see you again,' his guest extended a hand, which he took and shook.

'Good afternoon, Dame Joan. Please, come in.'

He stood back to let her pass him in the hall way, then closed the door and ushered her up the stairs, in front of him, indicating the sitting room. He invited her to take a seat and asked if she would care for a cup of tea. She replied that she would, so he took off his coat and draped it over the sofa, then went into the kitchen and put on the kettle. They then made small talk until the tea was made and they were sitting opposite one another, each with a cup of the hot brew.

'Before we begin, Mr Holmes, would you mind if I just do a quick scan for surveillance equipment?' she requested, courteously. 'I know this is your place of work but I understand you've had problems with bugging devices in the past.'

'Please do, ma'am,' Sherlock acquiesced. She opened her bag and took out a small device about the size of a mobile phone and began to run it round the room. It gave no response at all until it passed across Sherlock's coat, on the sofa, then it emitted a sustained beep. She got up and walked over to the sofa and spread the coat out, running the device along the sleeves and pockets until she settled on the point in the seam which joined the collar to the body of the garment.

'You're not wired, are you Mr Holmes?' she asked, jokingly.

'Not to my knowledge,' he replied, keeping his cool.

'It's probably just one of those stock control things but would you mind awfully if we put your coat somewhere else? I would hate for us to be overheard.'

'Not at all,' he smiled and, getting up, took the coat into his bedroom and hung it behind the door. On his return, she ran the device over him but found nothing else to alarm her. So far, so good, he thought.

'Do you have a mobile phone, dear boy?' she asked. He reached into his jacket pocket and took it out.

'Just so that we are not disturbed, would you mind switching it off?'

That's a clever ploy, he thought, but switched it off anyway, muting the speakers, at the same time, and put it back in his pocket.

'Good!' she exclaimed. 'Right, what is it that you wish to tell me, young man?'

Sherlock smiled at the lady opposite and began his prepared explanation of all his revelations, following his visit to his Mind Palace. As he began to speak, he felt the phone in his pocket vibrate as Anthea switched it back on, remotely, from her laptop, sitting at Mrs Hudson's kitchen table, downstairs, and activated the Voice Memo app.

'I believe that the security plans were leaked deliberately in order to draw attention to the secret cadre within the Home Office. Had the plans not been leaked, there would have been no reason to investigate the Home Office. Whoever leaked the plans did so in order to arouse suspicion. They never intended them to be sold or given to any terrorist organisations. They were not leaked for profit.' He paused and looked at her. She was nodding, sagely.

'That's an interesting theory, Mr Holmes. Is that the extent of your deductions?' she asked, smiling indulgently.

'No, ma'am,' he replied. 'The plans to be leaked were chosen to coincide with my brother's return from holiday, in order to cast suspicion on him and his PA. I believe that the purpose of this was, on the one hand, to remove Mycroft from the department temporarily, putting a much less capable person in command, at short notice, in order to allow some breathing space for the perpetrator of this subterfuge to clean their house of any incriminating evidence, which may not have been possible under my brother's watchful eye.'

She held up a hand, so he paused again.

'I'm not quite sure I follow you,' she said. 'Are you saying that the plans were not actually stolen at all but that someone – other than your brother and his PA – had access to them within the department?'

'Or within the Home Office or within your own department, ma'am, since MI5 deals with national security,' he explained.

'Oh, so you believe that someone in one of those departments may have been responsible for the leak?' she asked, seeking clarification.

'Yes, ma'am, I do. The leak was discovered in plenty of time to change the plans so no one's safety was actually put at risk. However, it did lead to the investigation which exposed the secret pressure group within the Home Office and it did take my brother out of the equation for a long enough period of time for a spot of creative housekeeping, if I may put it that way.'

'So what do you think was the point of it all?' she asked, with an expression of deep sincerity.

'I believe that the secret cadre were on the brink of uncovering something far more serious than a culture of intimidation within their department. I believe that they got close to something much more sinister.'

'Like what?' she asked, looking and sounding a little less self-assured,

'I suspect, ma'am – and it is only a suspicion, for which I have no tangible proof at all – that someone of considerable rank and position has been systematically passing on government secrets for quite some time, someone in a position of trust, who has access to some very sensitive information. It is my assertion that this person became aware of the Pressure Group and needed to 'out' them, very quickly, but also needed to cover their tracks. Hence, the leaking of the security plans and the removal of Mycroft from his office, for a week.'

Sherlock paused there and waited for Dame Joan to respond.

'And do you have any particular person in mind, any specific suspect, Mr Holmes?'

'I'm afraid not, Dame Joan, which is why I have come to you. I feel that, in your position, you are the best person to lead this investigation.'

She smiled at him, indulgently, like an aunt to a favoured nephew, then placed her cup and saucer on the side table and stood up. He stood, too.

'Well, thank you, Mr Holmes. I am extremely grateful to you for bringing this information to my attention. I will certainly give it some thought over the weekend. I believe your brother is away, isn't he? Do give him my regards when next you see him.' She reached out her hand and he took it. She then place her other hand over the top of his and, as she squeezed, he felt a sharp prick in his back of his hand. He pulled it away, looking at it, in alarm. There was a puncture wound, right on the large vein that ran up the back of his hand

'You are a very clever man, Mr Holmes – almost as clever as your brother, I would say. What a wonderful asset he is to our country.' She was smiling at him but not making any move to leave. He could feel his arm beginning to ache and feel cold. He held his wrist and stared from the hand to the woman and back to the hand. His mind was racing. It had all been going so well. Suddenly, it had all gone wrong. He knew there was something he needed to say, but his vision was beginning to blur and the ache was advancing rapidly up his arm, into his shoulder. He backed away from the smiling dame and blurted out,

'Molly…Molly will be…wondering….' But that was as far as he got. He could feel a numbness in his neck, spreading down into his chest and up into his head. It was the strangest sensation.

'Do you like snakes, Mr Holmes? They are fascinating creatures. Their venom has some remarkable properties. It contains some of the most potent neurotoxins known to man.'

Sherlock felt his legs give way as he sat down heavily in his chair. She stepped towards him, as though to get a closer look at his distress, as if to gloat over him. The leering expression on her face was the last thing he saw before his consciousness began to slip. The last thing he heard was a loud crash, a shout and, then, an even louder explosion.

ooOoo


	26. Chapter 25

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Twenty Five**

Anthea burst through the door, into the room, at almost the precise moment that the two SAS men crashed in through the windows, to see Dame Joan standing over Sherlock. She looked up, momentarily stunned into inactivity, but not for long. Even as the former field agent took in the scene, the other woman raised her right hand toward her own head and Anthea saw it held a small pistol. Not on my watch, lady, she thought, and, simultaneously, shouted,

'Put that down!', whilst raising her own weapon and firing, with pinpoint accuracy, at the woman's hand. The bullet struck the butt of the small pistol and sent it flying from the DG's grasp, nicking the heel of her hand as it grazed off the gun butt. The woman staggered backwards, more from shock than pain or injury, and then the nearest of the two SAS men was upon her, barrelling her backwards, into the other arm chair – John's chair.

'Secure her!' Anthea barked, to that man, 'Get some medics here!' and then, to the other, 'Get him on the floor!'

The second man moved swiftly across to Sherlock, who was sprawled in the chair, his arms spread-eagled, his head back, staring, wide-eyed but unseeing, at the ceiling. The man picked him up by his jacket lapels, as though he were a manikin, and laid him out, unceremoniously, on the sitting room floor. Anthea was next to him, at once, kneeling on the floor, her head pressed to his chest, her fingers on his carotid artery, feeling for a pulse, which she knew, already, would not be there. She nodded to the man, placed her hand under Sherlock's jaw, tilted his head back, pinched his nostrils shut and, placing her mouth over his, to create a seal, blew two strong breathes into his lungs, pausing between the first and second, to look to her right and watch his chest rise and then fall, as the air went in and then out again. She then sat up, whilst her colleague administered fourteen rapid compressions to Sherlock's sternum, then Anthea gave two more breaths. They continued this, in turn, in an efficient, practised routine, as though this were a training exercise.

Anthea could hear the other man on the phone, talking to Dispatch, giving all the relevant details – adult male, attacked with neurotoxin derived from snake venom, most likely injected, did not know what type of snake, in cardiac arrest, receiving CPR, and, of course, the address – 221B Baker Street.

Anthea had not been privy to the conversation between Sherlock and Dame Joan. She had been downstairs, monitoring the wrist band signals. She had not activated the wrist band until the phone had been switched off and the coat taken to the bedroom – she had heard Sherlock walk across the floor, above her head and then slam the bedroom door, rather more loudly than strictly necessary. This had been part of their communication system. She had then waited for thirty seconds before reactivating the phone and activating the wrist band. She had been impressed by how steady Sherlock's pulse had remained throughout the conversation. It was slightly elevated but not by much. She assumed that he was employing some sort of relaxation technique to control that. She was right. It was when his heart rate suddenly accelerated, and then began to rapidly decelerate, that she knew he was in trouble, and had pressed the panic button and run for the stairs.

The two SAS men had waited on the roof of 221 until the target had entered the building, then, under cover of darkness and dressed from head to toe in black, had abseiled down the walls, either side of the two front windows, and attached listening devices to the glass panes, so that they could hear the conversation going on, inside. They had only needed to hear the beginning of the 'Abort' phrase, and the manner in which it was delivered, to know that it was time to intervene. They did not wait for the 'scramble' alert from Anthea, but, with a nod to one another, simultaneously pushed off from the wall and crashed, feet first, through Mrs Hudson's original Georgian windows, scattering glass and shards of wood all over the sitting room carpet. The scene that met their eyes was of the man collapsed in the chair and the woman standing over him, watching him die. They had heard the shout and, then, the loud report from the gun, amplified in the confined space of the cosy sitting room.

Having dragged Dame Joan into the kitchen, the first man had handcuffed her to the rail of the range cooker, that being the most solid object available. He had then removed his assault helmet, taken out his phone and called the emergency services, whilst his two colleagues set to work on the casualty. He picked up the older woman's gun, emptied it of bullets and put it in one of the many pockets in his combat trousers. He then went down the stairs and out through the front door, to stand on the pavement and hail the emergency vehicles, when they arrived.

ooOoo

Mrs Hudson was down the road, in Mrs Turner's sitting room, sipping tea and watching Saturday night TV, with her friend. They both heard the sirens approaching and saw the blue lights flash past the window, but then they stopped, just along the street. Mrs Hudson got up, out of curiosity and crossed to the window. She saw an ambulance and a police car parked outside her own house and watched as uniformed police and paramedics leaped from the vehicles and ran into her house.

'Oh, my goodness, what has he been up to now?' she wondered, aloud. 'I do hope he hasn't thrown anyone else out of the window. I had to have two bins replaced, last time. I had a terrible job getting the council to give me new bins. I had to fill in a huge, long form and wait for weeks.' She turned back to her friend and said,

'I'd better go and see what the damage is.' She put on her coat and left the building. Out on the street, as she approached the abandoned ambulance and police car, her eye was caught by the curtains billowing out of the first floor windows.

'Oh my God, what has he done to my bloody windows?' she gasped, and hurried, as fast as her hip would allow, along the pavement, in through the front door and up the stairs. On arriving on the threshold of the sitting room of Sherlock's flat, she saw a pair of familiar legs, stretched out, across the floor, and three uniformed paramedics kneeling next to the body attached to those legs, performing some sort of procedure.

'Mrs Hudson.' She heard a voice say her name and looked up to see Mycroft's PA, that Anthea girl, walking towards her.

'What's going on?' she asked, in shock.

'He's been attacked, injected with something. I'm just trying to find out what it was. Please, just wait here and let everyone get on with their jobs, would you, please?' Anthea patted her arm and then turned and walked into the kitchen. Mrs H followed her, with her eyes, and saw, sitting on the kitchen floor, a woman, about ten years younger than herself, who appeared to be handcuffed to the Aga, holding her free hand, which appeared to be bleeding, across her chest. Mrs Hudson walked toward the double doors which led into the kitchen, and heard Anthea say,

'What exactly did you give him? And how did you give it?' The woman just stared at the floor and did not respond. Anthea crouched down next to the woman, so they were eye to eye and repeated the questions.. The woman looked at Anthea and smiled.

Mrs Hudson charged into the kitchen, around the table and up to the woman on the floor. She grabbed a handful of the woman's slightly mussed-up hair and yanked her head back, screeching into her face,

'What have you done to my boy, you bitch?'

Dame Joan had never been spoken to or molested in this way in her whole life. She opened her mouth, in shock and pain, and looked into Mrs Hudson's enraged glare, then gasped,

'The ring! The ring! It's in the ring!' waving the hand which was cuffed to the Aga. Both Anthea and Mrs Hudson saw she wore a wedding band on the third finger of her left hand. Anthea caught hold of the DG's fingers and turned her hand, palm up, to see that the ring was considerably fatter on the palm side than on the outer side and had what looked like a recessed pin embedded in it. Being careful to hold the ring only by its safe edges, Anthea removed it from the finger and looked around for something to put it in. She opted for an empty petrie dish, from the table, placed another on top of it and wrapped the whole thing in cling film, a roll of which was on the counter top.

'I think you should let go of her, now, Mrs Hudson,' Anthea advised, so Mrs H gave the woman's head a final shake, then released her grip on the hair.

'They'll be able to analyse this so they will know exactly which neurotoxin was used and will be able to give the correct anti-venom,' Anthea assured Mrs Hudson.

'But won't that take ages?' Mrs H asked, her eyes full of fear and concern.

'They can give him polyvalent anti-venom, to be going on with. It won't be completely effective but it will help the situation and, hopefully tide him over until the specific anti-venom can be administered.' Even as she was explaining this, a dispatch rider entered the sitting room from the stairs, carrying a red bag which, in turn, contained a white box. He crossed to the huddle of paramedics and handed it over to the one who appeared to be in charge. He had been dispatched to deliver the polyvalent anti-venom, which was effective against a number of different snake venoms, from the repository at Guys Hospital. The senior paramedic, who was, in fact, an on-call trauma doctor, set about administering the anti-venom by intravenous injection, into Sherlock's arm.

As the Despatch rider stepped back from the huddle around the patient, Anthea approached him.

'I might have another job for you,' she said, showing him the cling-film wrapped bundle in her hand. 'This is the means by which the neurotoxin was administered. It will have traces of the toxin in it. Can you take it back to Guys and get them to analyse it?' The rider looked at the bundle.

'I don't usually carry anything that's not in a biohazard box,' he stated, wrinkling his brow. Anthea looked around, strode over to the paramedics and said,

'Are you done with that box?' One looked up, nodded, and handed the box and bag to her. She took it, shoved the wrapped up Petrie dishes into the box and began to close it up.

'It will need a patient reference, or it might get lost or sent to the wrong person,' the bike rider advised. 'And you need to say which hospital the patient is at.'

'Where are you going to take him?' Anthea asked the paramedics, rather rattled by all the red tape. They advised her that the patient would be going to St Mary's. She looked around the room and spotted a felt tip pen, in a jar, on the kitchen counter, grabbed it and scrawled,

'Sherlock Holmes, neurotoxin attack, sample. St Mary's London,' on the box and looked again at the biker.

'Will that do?' she asked.

'Yes, I suppose so. I can add my despatch number, so that will help ID it,' the man replied, took the box and left.

As he departed, Greg Lestrade entered the room. He had been alerted to the disturbance at 221B and had come at once. He stood in the doorway, taking in the scene, and his eyes rested on the huddled figure, handcuffed to the range, noting the fact that she was injured. He hailed one of the uniforms and asked,

'Has this woman had any medical assistance?' The PC looked a the woman as though he had only just noticed her, which he had.

'No, sir, I believe she hasn't,' he replied, looking rather sheepish.

'Then you had better get another ambulance here, pronto!' snapped Lestrade. 'And who cuffed her to the stove?'

'I did,' said Anthea, stepping forward. The two SAS men had, miraculously, disappeared, slipping away, under the cover of the furious activity, around the patient.

'On whose authority?' Lestrade snarled. Anthea took out her ID card and showed it to the DI.

'The highest in the land,' she replied.

'Bloody Mycroft Holmes? Where the hell is he, then?' Lestrade growled.

'He's out of the country but I am acting under his authority,' she explained. 'But now you're here, Inspector, you can take over this crime scene. This woman has attempted to murder that man, over there, by injecting him with a lethal neurotoxin. I have just sent the evidence of that to Guys Hospital, to have it analysed, which I'm sure you will not approve of, but, since a man's life is at stake, I hope you will appreciate why I did it.' Lestrade looked at her then shook his head, in resignation.

'Take those cuffs of her and sit her on a chair, for God's sake. She's old enough to be my granny,' he stated. Anthea unlocked and removed the cuffs and Lestrade took charge of the former DG of MI5.

The paramedics had Sherlock intubated and attached to a portable respirator and were preparing to transfer him to the ambulance and take him to hospital.

Anthea looked at Mrs Hudson and said,

'I'm going with him, in the ambulance. Do you want to come, too?'

'No, dear,' she replied. 'I need to stay here and clear up after this lot. I'll come along later, when they've all gone and I can leave my house secure. I need to call someone to come and board up the windows, for one thing. I'm sure he's in good hands.' Anthea patted the other lady's arm, once again, and followed the paramedics down the stairs, as they carried Sherlock, carefully, out of the building, installed him in the ambulance and set off for St. Mary's, sirens wailing.

ooOoo

**I researched the effects and treatment of the neurotoxins in snake venom, which was unbelievably complex! I just hope I got it right. Apologies if I didn't!**


	27. Chapter 26

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Twenty Six**

It was John's first duty, since his dunking in the canal, and he was on a 'late', which was an afternoon/evening shift. He had shed the soft collar but was still taking some pain relief, just not so strong. He was in the staff lounge, enjoying a much needed sandwich and cup of tea, when the call came in that there was an adult male en route suffering complete pulmonary-cardiac arrest, following an attack involving an injection of neurotoxin. There was something about the bizarre nature of this call that raised John's hackles. It was just outrageous enough to make him think of Sherlock. He was waiting, just inside the doors to the ambulance bay, when the emergency vehicle arrived. As soon as the back doors opened and he saw Anthea, his heart almost leaped out of his chest.

As the stretcher was lowered on the tailgate, John came out into the bay and looked at the body on board. He could barely see Sherlock, behind all the medical paraphernalia his friend was hooked up to. He was on the brink of panic but his professional instincts kicked in and he switched to auto pilot. He listened intently to what the on-call trauma doctor, who had attended the scene and travelled in with the casualty, had to say – the condition of the patient on his arrival at the scene, the treatment given, how the casualty had coped with the journey – all the essential information needed to provide continuity of care. John thanked him for his help and followed the stretcher into the trauma treatment room, as he processed the information. Sherlock had been in complete cardiac and respiratory failure, when the paramedics arrived on the scene, due to the paralysing effect of the neurotoxin, but receiving CPR. They had set up a life support system, deploying a portable ventilator and transcutaneous pacing. They had intubated him and attached the ventilator. They had applied pads to the Sherlock's skin, one on his back and one on his chest, "sandwiching" the heart between the two pads. The pads were attached to a monitor/defibrillator. They had selected a heart rate and the current had regulated that heart rate, with a corresponding pulse. It was a short term solution to what would, hopefully, be a short-term problem. It would maintain his heart rate until they could get him to the hospital. The ventilator would supply oxygen enriched air to his lungs, so all vital functions would be maintained, whilst he was not able to breathe for himself. This had implications for Sherlock's prognosis but John did not want to think about that just now. He assessed Sherlock's primary needs as being his cardiac dysfunction, so sent out a call for a cardiac specialist.

The first task was to move Sherlock from the gurney to the treatment couch. The trauma team accomplished this with a minimum of fuss. The next task was to transfer him from the paramedics' portable ventilator to the in-house system. This needed to be done without any break in life support. It was accomplished with equally smooth efficiency. The transcutaneous pacing could not be left in place for more than about thirty minutes, in total, due to the risk of burning to the skin. If the polyvalent anti-venom was ineffective, an alternative solution would need to be found – and soon. During the interval before the arrival of the cardiologist, John supervised the process of wiring Sherlock up to the various machines that would monitor his vital signs and give important information about how his body was reacting to both the neurotoxin and the anti-venom. When the cardiologist arrived, John brought him up to speed and then left the area. His personal feelings were beginning to over-ride his professional instincts and he knew he had to step away and let someone else take over.

He walked along to the family room to find Anthea. Sitting down, heavily, opposite her, he took a steadying breath and asked,

'What happened?'

Anthea started from the beginning and told him the whole story.

'When we got to him, he was in complete respiratory and cardiac arrest,' she concluded.

'How long had he been like that?' John asked.

'Only seconds but he was anoxic. His lips were quite blue. We gave him CPR until the paramedics arrived then they continued until the pacemaker took over. We did everything we could for him, John, honestly.'

'What a stupid, fucking idiot!' John exploded. 'How could he have been so bloody naïve to imagine he could go up against someone like her and come away unscathed? The Head of MI5, for God's sake, with all the resources she has access to! And he knew she was up to no good! And she'd already had him zapped with a bloody Taser!''

'I'm sorry, John, I tried to persuade him. He was just determined to go ahead,' Anthea explained.

'Does Mycroft know? Of course, he knows; Mycroft knows everything. Where is he, anyway?' John asked. He was almost beside himself with rage and anxiety. He'd lost his friend once. He couldn't stand to lose him again.

'Mycroft is out of the country. I need to let him know what's happened but I wanted to give him an honest medical opinion.'

'The cardiologist is with him, right now. He's the one you need to speak to.'

The minutes ticked by and John was feeling guilty for abandoning his duties to his other patients, thinking he was going to have to return to those duties and try to put all this out of his mind, when the cardiologist came down the corridor toward them. Anthea stood up to meet him.

'Are you family?' the man asked.

'No, but I represent his next of kin, his brother. He is out of the country but I will be speaking to him as soon as I have spoken with you,' Anthea explained, succinctly. John nodded to confirm that what she said was true.

'I'm concerned about his cardiac function. The good news is that the polyvalent anti-venom had had some effect and his heart is trying to beat independently, but with marked signs of dysrhythmia, and it has stopped several times, since we removed the transcutaneous pacing. So I've opted for a transvenous pacemaker, as a temporary measure, until we can be sure that the neurotoxin has been completely neutralised.' He paused there, then asked,

'Do you have any questions?' Anthea just stared at the man, rather lost for words.

'No, thank you,' said John, wondering how these people ever got past the selection board. He was probably very good with hearts.

'Needless to say, he will be in an induced coma until all this invasive machinery can be dispensed with. We're transferring him to ICU, now.' John thanked the man again and he departed. John then turned to Andrea and said,

'Just tell Mycroft that he is in an induced coma and on temporary life support until the neurotoxin is neutralised. He doesn't need to know all the gory details. But tell him that he is responding to the anti-venom. I will go and ring Guys and find out what's happened to the sample you sent them.' He was about to walk away when he suddenly thought,

'Does Molly know he's here? Does she know about any of this?'

'Greg Lestrade said he would break the news to her and bring her to the hospital. He's the officer in charge of the case, now. I told him she's at the house in Hertfordshire. He said he would drive out there himself,' Anthea advised him. He nodded, gave a grim half smile and walked away.

Anthea walked in the opposite direction, toward the exit. She had to inform Mycroft - something she was dreading. He was so far away and on important personal business. She knew he would want to cut short his trip and fly home. She didn't think this would be in his best interests but he would do it, anyway - for his brother.

ooOoo

Molly was wondering where Sherlock was. He hadn't texted, he hadn't phoned and he hadn't made it back for supper. That was not like him, nowadays. It worried her. She had been worried all day, ever since he had left, early that morning. He had said he was going to see Anthea but not why. She guessed it had something to do with what he had discovered during his protracted session in his Mind Palace, the previous evening, and that worried her. The fact that he had not taken any of Mycroft's security men with him – not even a driver – worried her, too. He had asked the chauffeur to take him to the station to catch the London train. That was the last she had seen or heard from him. When she put William to bed, he had asked when Daddy was coming home and she had had to say she didn't know, because it was the truth.

She had tried texting him, when he failed to show for supper, but her texts went unanswered. In the end, through desperation, she had tried ringing him. His phone rang and rang, then went to voice mail. Why wasn't he answering his phone? She wished she had Anthea's number but she didn't. She thought about phoning John. He might have heard from or seen Sherlock, but she knew he was back at work today and she didn't want to disturb him. She thought of ringing Mrs Hudson, but if the old lady thought Sherlock was in danger, it would worry her, so Molly decided not to ring her, either. At last, out of sheer desperation, she rang Greg Lestrade. He answered, almost immediately.

'Greg, have you heard from Sherlock, today? Do you know where he might be? I'm really worried about him,' she began. There was long pause on the other end of the line and she could hear a car engine so she assumed that Lestrade was driving. At last, he said,

'Molly, I'm about five minutes away from you. I do know where Sherlock is. Can you just hang on five minutes until I get there?'

Molly's heart froze inside her chest. She could barely breathe. She whispered, Yes, down the phone then dropped it on the floor and reached out for something to hold onto. She knew it was bad news. Why else would Greg Lestrade have driven all the way out here? She took a couple of deep breaths and tried to remember the relaxation techniques that Sherlock had been practicing all week. It didn't help, at all. She walked, unsteadily to the door of the drawing room and out into the hall. She saw lights sweep across the windows, either side of the front door, as a car came up the drive and circled, to stop in front of the house. She walked to the front door and opened it, to see Greg Lestrade striding towards her, his face a mask of grim intent. It was just too much. She felt as though a large pit of blackness was engulfing her. Her knees gave way and she dropped to the floor of the hallway. Andrew, who had come into the hall on hearing the car approaching, was able to catch her under the arms and break her fall, lowering her more gently to the ground.

She had already begun to regain her senses when Greg laid her on the sofa in the drawing room and Andrew returned with a glass of water. She pushed herself up to almost sitting and took a grateful sip of the water. Greg knelt down, in front of her and looked into her eyes with deep concern.

'What's happened?' she whispered, feeling as though her body was not hers anymore.

'He's been assaulted - with some sort of…..poison …taken from snake venom…'

'Neurotoxin?' she supplied the word.

'Yes, that's the stuff, neurotoxin. That woman he arranged to meet up with…'

'Anthea!' Molly almost shrieked, with alarm and disbelief.

'No, no, not her. She was helping him, so I gather. No, another woman, Dame Joan Manning, she did it,' Lestrade explained.

Molly was nonplussed.

'But she's the Director General of MI5! Why would she want to kill Sherlock?' she demanded.

'God knows, but she did.' But they were digressing.

'But, Sherlock, where is he? How is he? Is he alright?' She knew he wasn't. Neurotoxin? He couldn't possibly be alright.

Greg sat on the edge of the sofa, turned toward her, and took her hand. She stared at him, her eyes wide with fear and dread.

'He's alive,' he said.

'But?' Molly added. 'There is a 'but', isn't there? I can hear it in your voice.'

'But he's in a bad way. His heart stopped. He had to be resuscitated but his heart wasn't beating on its own and he wasn't breathing. They put him on a ventilator and a heart machine, thingy. They gave him some anti-venom but it wasn't the one for that specific snake so it might not work. Anthea, Mycroft's PA, she sent some of the toxin to be analysed, so they'll know what snake it came from then they'll know what anti-venom to give him. He's gone to hospital, obviously – St Mary's, as it happens.' He paused to give her a chance to take it all in, then went on.

'I've come to get you, to take you to him.' She looked at him and then went to stand up.

'No, no, no, hang on a minute, are you sure you are feeling alright?' he asked, putting his hand on her arm to prevent her from rising. She gave him a weak but determined smile.

'I need to go to him.' Then 'William!' she cried, suddenly.

'Madam, please do not be concerned about William. The staff will be more than happy to take care of him. He will be safe with us,' Andrew said, reassuringly. Molly was torn. She needed to be with Sherlock but she was worried about what William would do, when he awoke in the morning to find both his parents missing. But he knew all the staff very well and she could talk to him on the phone, explain that Daddy was poorly and needed her to be with him. She nodded at the butler and got up, unsteadily, from the sofa.

'I need to get my bag and coat,' she said, and went out of the room. The two men stood and looked at one another.

'Does Mr Holmes know what's happened?' Andrew asked. Lestrade shook his head,

'I don't know. I expect his PA will ring and tell him. I understand he's abroad?'

'I'm afraid I don't know where he is, sir, only that he isn't here,' the butler replied, the very soul of discretion. What was it about Mycroft Holmes that inspired such loyalty in his minions? Greg Lestrade had no idea but, whatever it was, he wished he had some, sometimes. Maybe Donovan and Anderson would give him less of a hard time, if he did. He turned and walked in to the hall and waited for Molly to come back down the stairs. When she did, she was carrying a small over-night bag. She was clearly prepared for the long haul. She thanked Andrew and asked him to ring her as soon as William awoke, in the morning, so that she could talk to him about why she wasn't there. He assured her of that, she walked from the house and got into Lestrade's car. He got in, behind the wheel, and they drove away, down the long drive.

ooOoo

'I am so sorry, sir, truly,' Anthea stressed, on the phone, to her boss.

'Please, do not blame yourself, my dear. I attach no blame to you, whatsoever. If you had not agreed to help him, he would have done it anyway. He probably would have gone to see her at her home, which would have made him even more vulnerable. I am grateful that you were there. At least you were able to save his life – for now, at least. What is the prognosis, by the way?' Mycroft's pragmatic tone belied the way he was feeling. He was shocked to his core – not only about the fate that had befallen his younger brother but by the revelations about Dame Joan. He had not suspected her at all. Yet, she clearly was not who she seemed.

'We started CPR within seconds of the pulmonary-cardiac arrest, sir. He was anoxic but I think we maintained a good supply of oxygen to his brain. If the toxin can be matched to a neutraliser, then the prognosis has to be good, I would think. He is responding to the polyvalent but an exact match would be even more effective. I have no idea whether there could be permanent damage from the toxin itself. I just don't know enough about snake venom,' Anthea concluded.

'Nor I, unfortunately. I will ask around, though. I must curtail my visit here and return. I'll get the first available flight,' he advised her.

'Sir, are you sure that's in your best interests? I mean, sorry, sir, but Sherlock is on life support and in an induced coma. His condition is not likely to change between now and Monday morning. You could complete your business, sir' she finished, fearing she may have overstepped the boundaries in their relationship.

Mycroft gave a small smile, which she, of course, could not see.

'I am touched by your concern, my dear, truly, I am but it is misplaced. My business here took less time than I had thought. I was able to complete it today and was planning to catch up with an old school friend tomorrow, who is currently occupying a Mathematics Chair at MIT. I will apologise to him for cancelling. I will text you when I know which flight I'll be on. Would you have my car meet me?' he asked. Anthea assured him she would do that and they both hung up.

Mycroft picked up the phone in his hotel room and rang the Reception Desk, explained that he would be leaving earlier than expected and asked the Receptionist to book him a seat on the first available flight back to London. He then hung up and sat back in the arm chair, in the sitting area of his suite of rooms. Dame Joan was a dark horse, indeed. If she had been passing secrets for some time, one had to wonder exactly where her true allegiances lay. She was a high-ranking diplomat, during the Eighties, so the Cold War was still raging. The device Anthea described, which had been used to administer the potentially lethal injection, sounded suspiciously Soviet in design. Had she been turned whilst up at Oxford? It was conceivable. Perhaps she had been batting for the other side all along. He would take a very active interest in her debriefing, he thought to himself.

ooOoo

John was on the phone to the snake anti-venom holding centre, at Guys Hospital, enquiring about any progress they may have made in identifying the neurotoxin.

'Well, Dr Watson, it's a bit of a Good News/Bad News situation,' the young man at the centre began. 'The good news is, we have identified the type of snake venom that was used as the source for the neurotoxin. The bad news is, we don't have any here. But the good news is that they do have some at another centre. The bad news is that centre is in Liverpool. However, the good news is that they have dispatched a biker to bring the anti-venom to your hospital. It should be with you in about four hours.'

John was thinking that, if this doctoral dickhead used the term 'good news/bad news' just one more time, he would have to reach his arm down the phone, grab his geeky gizzard and squeeze the life out of him.

It got worse.

'Your patient, Sherlock Holmes, isn't that the detective dude who faked his own death a few years ago? Was this another suicide stunt, gone wrong?'

'Thank you for your help,' John interjected, and hung up. So, they would have to wait for four hours. That was more than a bit not good.

ooOoo


	28. Chapter 27

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Twenty Seven**

John was pacing up and down outside the ICU, shaking his head, clicking his fingers, muttering to himself. He was the archetypal personification of agitation. He was not a happy man. He had no idea what the consequences of a four hour delay in the administering of the anti-venom might be. He needed data but there was no way he was going to ask the moron at Guys for more help. But where else could he go? Who knew about snake venom? Where could he get advice? His head was buzzing, he couldn't think straight, he needed to focus. He stopped pacing, clenched his fists, closed his eyes, took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. He needed to channel Sherlock. He'd seen him do this a thousand times but, for the first time, perhaps, he really understood why Sherlock shouted for everyone to shut up, keep still, face the other way, don't even think. All these things, when one was in such a heightened state of awareness, were unbearably distracting. John put his fingers to his temples and stood very still, in the quiet corridor. Think, man, think! And the thought just popped into his head, almost with a ping. London Zoo!

It was late, after ten o'clock on a Saturday night. Would there even be anyone there? Only one way to find out. Sitting at one of the 'hot desks', he Googled the number and dialled. He got an automated answering service but he listened, hoping for an emergency number. No luck. Back to the drawing board. He needed a name, someone he could ring directly, make it personal. He Googled again, 'London Zoo', and got a whole load of visitor information about hours of opening, parking, gift shop and so on but, scrolling down, he found something that looked useful, near the bottom of the page. It said 'Institute of Zoology'. He clicked on that and got a new window, all about the work of the Institute. That was no use either but, running his eye along the options at the top of the page, he spotted the heading 'Staff and Ph.D Students'. He clicked on that and – hey presto - a whole list of names appeared. And, at the top of that list was the name of the Director of the Institute. This guy might not know about snake venom but he would probably know a man who did. He clicked on the man's name and got a long and very detailed CV but, alongside that, he found the magic words 'Contact Details'. There were two phone numbers and an email address. Chances were, this man was not at his desk at this time on a Saturday but it was worth a try. He dialled the first number. It rang several times, then switched to voice mail. John listened to the whole message - apologies for being away from his desk, when he would be back, and so on and so forth - and, just as he was about to give up hope, someone picked up.

'Hello? Is that Professor Phil Brigstock?' John blurted out, immediately.

'Speaking,' replied the voice, sounding rather irritated.

'Professor, my name is Dr John Watson. I'm a trauma doctor at St Mary's Hospital in London and I need your help, most urgently!'

ooOoo

The room was pleasantly warm. The lighting was low, not harsh. It was calm and quiet, but for the sound of the various machines, beeping intermittently, but even that was not intrusive. It was almost soothing, like mood music. Molly stood next to the bed, her hands resting on the side rails, raised to prevent the patient inadvertently rolling off the bed. Not much risk of that, in Sherlock's case. He was completely inert and covered in clinical sensors of one kind or another.

On his head, he wore what looked a bit like a swimming cap, but Molly knew it was a mass of receptors, which were picking up information about the electrical activity in his brain and sending it to the EEG machine, on the other side of the bed. His eyes were covered with cotton pads, which were secured to the skin of his forehead and cheeks with surgical tape. This was to keep his lids closed. The neurotoxin had paralysed the muscles around his eyes and his lids had remained open, giving his eyes a glassy, staring look – a look of death. To prevent damage to the exposed surfaces of his eyes, the lids needed to be held down. From his mouth, there protruded a clear plastic tube, held in place by a strap, fitted around his head. One end of the tube extended down his windpipe. The other end was fitted to a ventilator, which pushed warmed, humidified, oxygen-enriched air into his lungs, in regular pulses.

His bare chest bore a scattering of adhesive pads, each one with a wire attached, which ran to an ECG machine, monitoring and recording his cardiac function. Resting just above his right nipple, and also attached with surgical tape, was the business end of the transvenous pace maker. This was a round, red object – about the size and shape of a powder compact, from which ran a wire, which disappeared under a dressing, into the hollow above his right clavicle. That was where the pacing electrode had been introduced to the vein and threaded through into his right atrium and right ventricle. The pacing electrode had been advance through the vein, using video flouroscopy and electrocardiography as guidance. The site had then been x-rayed, to confirm that the placement was correct. This neat little gadget was telling his heart to beat by giving it small, regular electric shocks. Another sensor, attached to his hand, was transmitting information about his blood pressure, another, the levels of oxygenation in his blood, yet another, his core body temperature. The list seemed almost endless. Molly was familiar with them all – just not with the concept of them being attached to him. This picture was just not right. This was a man of action, a vibrant, active man, who was almost continually in motion. It just wasn't appropriate to see him so inert, so inactive, so passive. She reached out a hand and touched his bare arm. His skin was cool to the touch, but not unpleasantly so. He showed absolutely no reaction to the touch. His hand remained lose, his fingers flacid, resting on the mattress. It was as if he wasn't there, that this was just an empty shell…. But she banished that thought immediately. He was still alive and where there is life, there is hope, as her grandmother was wont to say. So she stood and stroked his bare arm and she hoped, with all her heart.

ooOoo

Once he got over the annoyance of being disturbed, at his late night, last minute, book copy deadline panic session, Professor Brigstock was remarkably keen to help. He was fascinated by the very idea that someone would use a neurotoxin as a murder weapon. It appealed to his scientific sensibilities. And he knew the very person who could give John all the information he needed on snake venom effects and treatments. This colleague was in Australia but that was a plus, because it was Sunday morning in Sydney and he would be up and about. He gave John the man's cell phone and landline numbers but said he would ring the man himself, first, and tell him to expect John's call. He told John to give him five minutes, before calling the number himself. John was about to do that when his own phone rang. It was a number he did not recognize, with an Australian international dialing code. John answered straight away.

'G'day, Doc,' the man opened. Did Aussies really say G'day? John supposed they must. The herpetologist, who introduced himself as Mart, short for Martin, was clearly a man who loved his subject but he was sensitive to the fact that a man's life was at risk and John warmed to him, immediately. He asked John to describe the nature of the attack and was particularly interested to know the timeline. John gave all the details he had, though he was not sure how long it had taken, from the injection of the neurotoxin, for Sherlock to suffer the respiratory and cardiac failure. However, he knew it was only a matter of a few minutes.

'Bloody hell, that's quick!' Mart exclaimed. 'That must have been a pretty potent dose of toxin. That's the problem, with derived toxins. You don't really know the concentration. In snake venom, the amount of actual neurotoxin is only a tiny percentage of the total dry weight of a sample. The rest is made up of …still, I don't suppose you need to know about all that. This must have been just toxin, pure, distilled and concentrated. It must have been the equivalent of several snake bites, to make the poor guy shut down that fast. Lucky there was someone there who knew what to do. You say they gave him polyvalent? Do you know how much, exactly?'

John checked the attending doctor's notes and gave Mart the figure.

'Fuck me, that's nowhere near enough! For one bite, he would have needed about twice that amount. For the number of equivalent bites that that guy got, he should have been given probably eight times that. You say they are sending some of the species specific antivenom? OK, due to arrive when?'

John checked his watch.

'In about two hours, now,' he informed the man,

'And the toxin was introduced when?' John gave the time of the attack.

'Right, Ok, well, the beautiful thing about neurotoxins is that, once they're neutralized, they don't normally have any residual effects. If the right amount of the right antivenom had been administered right away, your guy would probably be sitting up in bed with a cup of tea, right now. But it's not all bad. The polyvalent will have weakened the effect and his body will be metabolizing the toxin, too. Once he gets the good stuff – and I'm guessing they will have sent you a generous supply, he should begin to recover. Your biggest problem is going to be how much damage was caused by the anoxia, before he was put on the ventilator, but I'm sure I don't need to tell you that, hey, doc?' Mart then went on to ask about Sherlock's weight, then he did a quick calculation and advised John of the exact amount of antivenom to give him, when it arrived. He then wished John and his patient good luck and asked to be informed how the guy got on, once he received the treatment. John thanked him profusely, to which Mart replied,

'Hey, no worries!' which was another cliché, but a most endearing one.

ooOoo

John walked back through the hospital to the ICU and in through the double doors. He could see Sherlock, on the bed, in a pool of subdued light, over against the far wall. Molly was standing next to the bed, as she had been for the last two hours, ever since she arrived at the hospital. She turned her eyes toward John as he approached, and gave him a tense smile. He put his arm around her waist and hugged her to his chest, briefly, then told her, in a low voice what the Aussie doctor had told him.

'That is good news, isn't it?' she asked, looking for reassurance, afraid to assume too much.

'Yes, very good news. No lasting effects, from the toxin, at least,' John confirmed. It was what he didn't say that worried Molly, but she had to keep positive, to hope and pray that the efforts of Anthea and her SAS colleague had maintained a good level of oxygenation in his blood to keep his brain well-supplied until the ventilator took over.

'Why don't you sit down, Moll?' John suggested.

'I can't see his face, if I sit,' she answered, simply.

'I can lower the bed,' John offered.

'If you're sure it won't upset any of the machinery,' she cautioned.

'No, it won't,' John assured her, and used the control panel to gently lower the bed so that Molly could sit on the easy chair and still see Sherlock's face.

'Fancy a cup o' tea?' John asked.

'I'd love one,' she replied. 'We're not keeping you from your duties, are we?'

'No, I was off duty two hours ago. I just don't want to go home, not just yet,' he explained. She then reached out and gave him a hug. and he went off, to make the tea.

ooOoo


	29. Chapter 28

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Twenty Eight**

What was that sound? Someone was singing - no, not singing, exactly - whispering, tunefully, inside his mind. The song seemed….familiar. And it seemed significant, too, if only he could remember why. The words - something about being somewhere before, walking on a floor, living alone, knowing that other person? Then the bit about flags and arches and victory marches - why was this song so important? Why was it drawing him in? The voice was familiar, too. He moved towards it, was very nearly there, could almost reach out and touch... Then he was off again, racing away to the furthest reaches of this Universe, like a comet, captured in the gravity of a giant sun, pulled in, then swung around and hurled off into Infinity, by the sling shot reflex. Newton's Third Law of Motion: Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. As he sped outwards from the roiling inferno, he turned to look back and longed for the moment when his velocity would decay and he would be able to arc back, through the dark recesses of this barren galaxy, and be drawn into the warmth and comfort of that glowing orb, once again. Was this his fate, to be the eternal wanderer, to be pulled in and then pushed away, in and out, equal and opposite, him and her, him and...who? The song, the singer, the sun.

Molly saw his eyes moving, rapidly, from side to side, under his hooded lids. He was dreaming again. She wondered, about what? She hoped about her or William. She longed to see him raise those dark, lustrous lashes, to let her gaze, once more, into those pools of liquid ice. For four long days, she had sat beside him, hoping and praying for those eyes to open but at the same time dreading what they might reveal. Was he still there, her Sherlock? Was that brilliant mind preserved? Or had the anoxia destroyed that part of him that he valued the most - his intellect? She would still love him, no matter what, but would he love her? Would he know her? Would he remember what they had together, what they meant to one another? Please, God, he would! She did not know how she would live if he didn't come back to her.

She leaned forward again, her lips almost brushing his skin, and began, once more, to sing. That song, his song or, rather, her song for him. He had responded with derision, of course, the first time she told him about his 'signature tune', saying it bore no similarity to their relationship, what so ever. But, privately, she knew he liked the idea of being personified in a song. It was their secret song, the song she only ever sang when they were alone, although she often heard it in her head when she thought of him. Remembering when he moved in her, in the velvet dark, when their every breath was...

The gentle knock on the door broke her reverie, and she brushed away the tears before turning to greet the visitor.

'Lunch time,' said the nurse, smiling apologetically, for the intrusion, raising the pouch of feeding formula.

Sherlock had been off life support for three days, now. Once the species specific antivenom had been administered, in the dosage advised by Doctor Mart, the Aussie expert, there had been a marked and rapid improvement in his condition, as the toxin was neutralised and he began to breath for himself. Two days ago, he had been moved to a side ward, the medication maintaining the induced coma having been gradually withdrawn from his treatment regime. But he had not yet woken up. The cotton pads were gone from his eyes and he looked, to all intents and purposes, as though he were just asleep – except he never slept like that, flat on his back. He liked to curl up, like a hedgehog, usually around her.

The medical staff were at a loss to explain why he hadn't awoken. All his vital signs indicated that the neuarotoxin was completely out of his system, everything was functioning normally. He'd even had a CT scan, to confirm that no areas in his brain had been compromised. Everything was as it should be, but he was still comatose. The best explanation she had been given was that he had temporarily shut down, as a means of self-preservation, to allow his body to recover from the trauma of the assault. She was clinging to this, like a life raft. It seemed like the sort of thing he would do.

Lunch, in the form of the high calorie liquid formula, was delivered through a gravity feed system, via a nasogastric tube. It was a little ironic, Molly thought, that, actually, he was probably eating better at the moment, in terms of a regular, balanced diet, than he ever did, in his normal life. His fluid intake was being provided by a saline drip, into the back of his left hand – not the hand that had received the injection of neurotoxin. That hand bore a dressing, covering the site of the entry wound, which had been raised and red, when he had been admitted, but was now almost invisible. The waste products of all this food and drink were being dealt with by tube, too. He had been diagnosed, yesterday, with a low level UTI, due, quite likely, to the rather heavy-handedness of the person who had catheterised him, so he was also receiving antibiotics, injected into the drip, to deal with that. So, all his needs were being taken care of, whilst he hid inside his own head, until he thought it would be safe to come out. That's how John Watson had put it and it sounded about right.

William was back at school. Molly had felt that, with her being committed to spending most of her time at Sherlock's bedside, it was best for their son to get back into a familiar routine. With the threat to his safety neutralised, it seemed sensible to let him return home and to school. Marie had kindly volunteered to move into the guest room and be his fulltime nanny for as long as was necessary. Molly was deeply grateful. Mrs Hudson had volunteered, too, but Molly knew what she really wanted to do was sit by Sherlock's bedside herself, which she did, for hours at a time, giving Molly the chance to go home, have a shower, change her clothes, see William, do normal things. Molly knew that Mrs H talked to Sherlock, when they were alone together. She had no idea what about but that was a 'mother-son' thing, private between the two of them.

Mycroft had returned from his trip abroad on the Sunday morning. He had come straight to the hospital from the airport, and sat with her and his brother, furrowing his brow and castigating the oblivious miscreant, with obvious affection, for being so impetuous and foolhardy. He expressed his deep regret for ever involving Sherlock in the whole affair, until Molly reminded him that he would have involved himself, anyway. Mycroft was back at work now, probably supervising the interrogation of the person who had put his brother in this hospital bed. Molly would have loved to be a fly on that wall. She had hugged Mrs Hudson when the older lady told her, a little shame-faced, what she had done to get the woman to talk. Mycroft had simply raised one eyebrow, when Anthea told him, and commented that, should he ever need assistance with a particularly recalcitrant subject, he knew where to go.

John visited regularly, before and after his duties, and called Sherlock all the names under the sun, observing him closely for any sort of reaction.

'Come on, you dumb klutz, don't let me have the last word!' was his mantra. But Sherlock did not so much as twitch. Probably biding his time, thinking up as many caustic retorts as he could, to fire back, at a thousand words per second, in his usual motor-mouth style. John reminded his friend, on more than one occasion, that he still owed him payback for almost wrecking his marriage, though, in truth, he knew that Sherlock was in no way to blame for that. How was he to know that John hadn't told Mary about the night at the movies? Innocent of all charges, case dismissed.

William had been in to see Daddy twice, now, and would be coming again today, after school. He would chatter away, telling tales of each day's adventures, bringing Sherlock up to speed about his latest turf wars with Alya, the Cock (or rather Hen) of the Climbing Frame. When would that child learn that no one owned the playground equipment, but that it was meant to be shared? It didn't seem to phase him, the fact that Sherlock didn't show any kind of response. He would pause, occasionally and look intently into his father's face, then fly off on another trajectory, relating more tales, about his latest violin lesson or the classroom pet that had, mysteriously, disappeared over night to be replaced by another, which was almost identical but not quite, but which the teacher insisted was the same animal. William had tried to point out the minuscule differences but Teacher was having none of it. In the end, he had decided it was kinder to let her continue to believe that Fluffy the rabbit had not done a runner and brought in an imposter to perpetrate the subterfuge. When it was time to go home, William would climb up on the bed to kiss Daddy and say, 'Night-night', which reminded Molly, so painfully, of him kissing Sherlock's photo, during that long absence, after The Fall. Maybe that helped William to rationalise. Daddy always came back, eventually.

Having set up the feeding session, and checked all Sherlock's other attachments – both in and out – taken his temperature, pulse, blood pressure and so on, the nurse left them alone again, reminding Molly to keep an eye on the gravity feed, make sure it was flowing smoothly and let her know if it wasn't. Molly moved back to the bed, picked up his limp hand and pressed her small palm to his large one, interlocking their fingers. Placing the back of his hand against her cheek, she rested her elbows on the bed, leaned forward and began to sing, again.

ooOoo

**A/N - The song Molly sings, if you haven't worked it out (which I'm sure you have!) is 'Hallelujah' by the wonderful Leonard Cohen, one of my favourite songs and so, naturally, one of my Molly's favourites, too.**


	30. Chapter 29

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Twenty Nine**

On the morning of the fifth day, the doctors treating Sherlock asked for a meeting with Mycroft and Molly. John attended, too, at Molly's request, since he was Sherlock's closest friend. The doctors had a new idea.

'We feel we might be making it too easy for him to stay asleep,' the senior consultant began.

'Patients who have been comatose can find it difficult to make the effort to wake up. It's almost as though they forget how to do that. It can be a very comfortable place to be. All one's needs are met; it's a bit of a free ride. We were thinking we might make it a bit less comfortable.'

Mycroft was never one to beat about the bush.

'What did you have in mind, exactly?' he asked. The consultant's entourage looked at one another, a little nervously, but the man himself pressed on, unabashed.

'We are proposing to take away his creature comforts and give him a reason to wake up,' he declared.

'Could you be a bit more specific?' John asked, intrigued at this idea of prodding Sherlock into action. Having lived with him as long as he had, he knew how difficult it could be to get him to do anything he didn't want to do.

'We would like to stop feeding him, remove the UT catheter, lower the temperature, slightly – not too much, you understand - reduce the night time lighting and increase the day time lighting. I've been consulting with a colleague who works in Sleep Disorders. I happened to mention this case – no names, of course – and he suggested this approach. It's a novel idea but I'd like to give it a try.' The man looked around to gauge, from the faces of his audience, how they might be receiving his suggestions. John was the first to respond.

'I can see the logic of it. What are the things that wake you up, in the morning? You're hungry, you need a pee, you're cold, it's daytime. What do you think, Moll?' Molly was mulling it over. She, too, could see the logic but she was applying it to the Sherlock she knew and cherished. Maybe it was time for a bit of tough love.

'None of these measures are irreversible?' she queried, just to be sure.

'Absolutely not. If, after a few days, he didn't respond, we would reinstate all his care and think again. We certainly would not allow it to go on long enough to cause him any ill effects,' the consultant assured her. Mycroft had still not expressed an opinion. Molly looked at him. He was the only one who could sanction this protocol, since he was Sherlock's legal next of kin.

'What do you think, Mycroft?' she asked.

'My brother is probably the most stubborn person I know but I think it's worth a try. It will either work or it won't. There's only one way to find out,' he stated, bluntly. The consultant then thanked them all for their patience and went off to discuss, with his staff, how the protocol would be instituted and Mycroft was asked to sign a form, giving his permission for the plan to be put into effect. Molly looked at John and they both smiled, a little grimly.

The game, it would seem, was on.

ooOoo

The first indication that the plan was having any effect appeared quite quickly. Sherlock had lain passive for four days but towards the late afternoon, on the fifth day, he moved. Molly had been dozing in the chair, beside his bed, when a sharp clatter jolted her awake. Sherlock's head was turned to towards her and his right arm was outstretched. The movement had dislodged the bed control pad, which had been lying on the mattress, next to his shoulder, and it had fallen to the floor. She reached out and put her hand on his arm.

'Sherlock, wake up,' she said, sharply, with a touch of urgency, as though she were waking him up at home – which she never had to do, since he nearly always awoke as soon as she moved, in the morning. She moved her hand to stroke across his brow and down his cheek, pushing the hair back, behind his ear and rubbing his jaw with her thumb and, putting her face close to his ear, she said,

'Come on, Sherlock, you can't hide in there for ever. You have responsibilities, now. William needs you, I need you, this baby needs you.'

There was no response.

'Just open your eyes and look at me,' she insisted, in her most assertive voice. But still nothing.

His lips looked a little dry, so she reached for the plastic cup on the bedside cupboard and applied water to them, using the sponge that the nurses had provided for that purpose. She was reminded of what John had told her about how Sherlock had begun to rehydrate her, by placing his lips over hers and trickling water from his mouth into hers, after she had been left to die of hypothermia and dehydration, in the container park.

She wanted, desperately, to kiss those lips. There was something unseemly about kissing a comatose man, but, what the hell, perhaps it was just the kind of stimulation that was needed. It worked for the Sleeping Beauty, didn't it?

'Sherlock, wake up so I can kiss you. I need to kiss you. Don't you want to kiss me?' She inclined her head and kissed him on the corner of his mouth but not full on the lips. 'Wake up and kiss me!' she whispered, seductively. He moved his head, fractionally, to the left, and she pressed her mouth to his. She saw his eyelids flicker, just flicker, then his lips parted and he made a sound in his throat. Maybe that was what he was missing the most. Not the food, nor the warmth or the other creature comforts, but the intimacy. She pulled her head back, so she could look him full in the face, and placed her hands along his jaw line, stroking his cheeks with her thumbs.

'I know you can hear me, Sherlock. I want you to open your eyes and look at me. I want you to come back to me. I want you,' she breathed, and kissed him again. She felt his lips part once more, felt his eye lashes stroke against her cheek. She looked up and saw his lids crack open; she gazed into those pools of liquid ice, once again.

ooOoo

Mycroft was in the Observation Room, watching the interrogation of Dame Joan Manning, on the large screen. This was the third day. He had set his best people to the task of breaking her. So far, she had given nothing away. But it was early days. They had plenty of time. The rules for interrogating enemies of the state were governed by international law and differed significantly from those which applied to domestic criminals.

The door opened behind him and he glanced up to see Anthea had entered the room.

'Sir, the hospital has rung. Mr Holmes has woken up,' she advised him. He closed his eyes and exhaled then collected himself.

'Did they say whether he's talking?' he asked.

'No, sir, I'm afraid they didn't and I didn't think to ask. Sorry, sir' she replied, apologetically.

'Oh, don't apologise, Anthea. It's good news that he is awake. I'll find out about his condition when I go to see him, later today,' Mycroft replied, returning his attention to the view of the Interview Room, on the screen. As Anthea left the room, he reached forward and pressed a comlink button, saying,

'I'm coming down,' before standing, straightening his jacket and exiting the Observation Room. A minute or so later, he entered the Interview Room and sat in the chair, recently vacated by one of the interrogators, who now stood back, against the wall. He and Dame Joan looked at one another for a brief period of time, then Mycroft spoke.

'My brother has awoken from his coma.'

The elderly lady pursed her lips and nodded.

'I'm very pleased to hear it. Please give him my regards,' she said.

'Why, Dame Joan? Why did you think you needed to kill him?'

'Isn't it obvious, Mycroft? He was about to destroy me. I couldn't let that happen.'

'But it happened, anyway.'

'Well, I was not to know that, at the time. I assumed he was working alone. My mistake.'

'Not your first.'

'That, my dear boy, is a matter of opinion.'

'I'm listening.'

'You wouldn't understand.'

'I might. Try me.'

'Loyalty, Mycroft. I have lived my whole life being loyal. Where did it get me?'

'Here, apparently.'

'Very droll. I served my country well, gave it the best years of my life. How did it repay me?

'Well, it gave you a very well paid job and made you a Dame of the British Empire. Did I miss something?'

Suddenly, she laughed. Mycroft continued to stare at her, until she shifted in her chair and looked down at the table.

'I think we are talking at cross purposes, you and I,' she said.

'How so?'

'Sorry, Mycroft, dear. I'm not going to make it easy for you. It must be getting on. Aren't I due a break? I seem to remember you insisting on a break every six hours. It must be at least that long since my last break.'

'Very nearly, yes.'

'Shall we stop there, then? You can go and visit your brother at the hospital.'

'Why not.'

'Whilst we are on the subject of my rights, I would very much like a bath and a change of clothing. Is there anything in the rule book against that?'

'I expect we can accommodate you, Dame Joan – or perhaps I could just call you Joan, since I expect the Damehood might be rescinded sometime soon.'

'I suspect you're right but, until it is, I would appreciate being addressed by my full sobriquet.'

Mycroft smiled, stood and indicated to the security guard, standing by the door, that Dame Joan could be taken back to her 'accommodation'. He then left the room and made his way back to his office. He would call a strategy meeting for tomorrow morning, to discuss with the whole interrogation team, how they might proceed with this 'subject'. The fact was, she had nothing left to lose, so there was no incentive for her to co-operate. But her comment about loyalty to her country was intriguing. There was mileage in that conversation, for sure. But, right now, he needed to get to St Mary's and see for himself what sort of state Sherlock was in.

ooOoo

Sherlock was awake. He was aware of the room and the people in it, but his head felt as though it were full of cotton wool and he seemed to be moving in slow motion – either that, or everyone else was moving extremely fast, and he didn't think that was the case. When he had opened his eyes, the first time, he was unable to focus, initially, but, gradually, his vision had cleared and fixed on the face in front of him and he had recognised that face. He couldn't find the name. It was there, in the back of his mind, it just wasn't coming to the fore, yet. He had smiled, blinked and tried to speak but his lips and tongue felt thick and numb, like after a visit to the dentist. The sound that came out was just an unarticulated moan. He moved his hand to stroke her face. It seemed to take a long time and a lot of effort to steer his hand towards her and, when it finally settled on the right spot, after a couple of near misses, his fingers were numb and tingly, so he couldn't feel the softness of her skin. He must have drifted off again then because, next time he opened his eyes, there were a number of people in the room and they all seemed to be talking at once. They were talking at him, rather than to him, calling his name, 'Mr Holmes', and asking if he could hear them. Well, of course he could hear them, he wasn't deaf. More's the pity, since they seemed to need to talk very loudly – shout, almost. He wanted them to slow down, speak one at a time, not talk so loud and stop moving around, so much, because his eyes couldn't move fast enough to keep track of them and it was annoying. He would be right on the brink of focusing on one person and they would suddenly move and another face would appear. It was making his eyes ache, trying to keep track of all their shifting around, so he closed his eyes again and drifted back into his peaceful limbo.

Molly knew he had recognised her. He had smiled and tried to say her name, she thought. His mouth just wasn't connected to his brain, yet. When his eyes closed again, she had pressed the call button for the nurse. That seemed to set off a flurry of activity. Before she knew what was happening, the room was full of medical personnel. She appreciated that the whole team wanted to be in on this 'awakening', since the methodology was so unique, but the sense of chaos their arrival engendered in her, she could only imagine would be felt ten-fold by Sherlock. He was environmentally sensitive at the best of times, probably far more so, having been unconscious for so long. She stood back, to let the medics get on with their tasks. One of the nurses explained to her that they needed to assess his condition, in terms of his responsiveness, his sensitivity to stimuli and his ability to communicate. It made him sound like a lab rat.

She saw his eyes open again and he was gazing around, unfocused, bemused, wrinkling his brow, as he tried to concentrate. The senior registrar was talking to him, asking him if he could hear her, when the consultant arrived. The registrar moved aside and let the consultant take her place but Molly saw Sherlock struggle to switch his focus to this new face. A look of annoyance flashed across his eyes and he closed them again, shutting them all out. Molly had to smile to herself. He was still her Sherlock, intolerant of stupidity. He might be confused and unco-ordinated at the moment but she was confident he would get that back. She breathed a sigh of relief. Slipping out of the room, she dialled John's number on her mobile. After a couple of rings, he picked up.

'He's awake, John, or rather, he was but the staff annoyed him so he's gone back to sleep. But I think he's going to be OK,' she said, her voice almost breaking with relief.

'I'll be there in about five minutes,' John replied, and hung up.

ooOoo

**Author's note: Thank you to everyone who has followed/favourited this story and especially to those who have taken the trouble to review. Your comments are always appreciated. A special word to my Guest Reviewer, who feels sick. It's not the hand you're dealt that shapes your fate, it's how you play it. Keep the faith. x**


	31. Chapter 30

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Thirty**

'I'm afraid you're just going to have to be patient, mate,' said John, knowing, even as he spoke, that the concept of patience was anathema to Sherlock. His response to that well-intentioned piece of advice said it all, as the impatient patient rolled his eyes and glared at the world in general. He had given up trying to speak, for the moment, as it took too much effort for the quality of the end product. His fine motor co-ordination had suffered the most from the brief period of anoxia he had suffered, before Anthea and her friend got to work with the CPR. Gross motor had suffered less and was returning more rapidly. He could stand, now, with a little assistance, from walls and pieces of furniture, and he could feel his balance improving, even over the last two days. At least, he didn't feel quite so drunk, now.

In those two days, since he had regained consciousness, he had been examined by a whole raft of specialists and had a shedload of tests. The general consensus of opinion was that he had suffered minor damage to his cerebellum, which had affected his gross and fine motor co-ordination and his speech. But the prognosis was positive. The damage was very slight. Although he was feeling the effects strongly now, he had been assured by the neurologist that the brain has amazing powers of recuperation and, if one area were compromised, other areas could take over the role of the damaged part. He had been assured that, with the support of the various therapists, and given time and determination, there was every reason to believe he would make a full recovery.

Sherlock was still coming to terms with that diagnosis and his frustration at not being able to express his thoughts on the matter was not helping. John had reminded him to be thankful that his intellectual capacity had not been affected but, at this point in time, rationality was not really on the agenda. The rehabilitation period was likely to be quite protracted and, during that time, it would be nigh on impossible for him to work. That was the part that bothered him the most because, as he had said so many times, in the past, without the work, his brain would rot. John had then suggested that he look upon the therapy as his 'work', set himself certain goals and work toward them; see it as a new challenge. At that point, Sherlock had turned his back and ignored John for the best part of an hour, but the words had sunk in and, on reflection, he could see they had merit. He had to see this as a new challenge – a puzzle, of sorts – and the first thing he needed to do was to research the cerebellum and learn as much about its structure and function as he could, so that he knew who the enemy was. He would ask Molly if she could get him one, to dissect and study.

ooOoo

Dame Joan was making heavy weather of this interrogation. She was a consummate professional, extremely adept at avoiding questions by simply changing the subject and taking the interview off in a new but temptingly promising direction. She was actually a mine of information and had already, in just five days, given them the goods on a couple of sleeper cells, left over from the Cold War, and outed a number of former Soviet moles who had managed to enjoy successful careers in the British Secret Service and even long and happy retirements, without their misdeeds being discovered. Unfortunately, they were, without exception, all dead now. So no action would or could ever be taken against them. But this still begged the question as to where her allegiances actually did lie, since she had chosen to keep all this knowledge to herself, all these years.

Mycroft had not been available to observe the sessions of the last two days, as he had been spending most of his time at the hospital, whilst his brother underwent a whole battery of tests to identify the root cause of his difficulties with physical co-ordination. Not that Sherlock had shown the remotest degree of gratitude for his brother's support. If anything, he had been resentful and slightly embarrassed that Mycroft was witness to his discomfiture. Mealtimes were probably the worst. Co-ordinating breathing and swallowing was not something the average person really needed to be concerned about. It usually took care of itself. But not any more. Every meal was a challenge and coughing fits were the order of the day. On more than one occasion, the food went flying across the room, when Sherlock threw a tantrum that even William would have been too embarrassed to own. Eventually, the Occupational Therapist was able to suggest a position – upper body slightly reclined, with the chin tilted forward – that seemed to facilitate this co-ordination, so the cleaning staff got a break from duty and Sherlock's meals ended up inside him rather than up the walls.

Mycroft had ridden the crest of these waves of anger and frustration with his usual stoicism. He was aware that sympathy was the last thing his brother wanted, from him, at least. What he wanted from Mycroft was for him to make things happen. As on previous occasions, Sherlock's principal goal was to go home, as soon as possible, so that he could at least imagine that he was back in control of his own life. Mycroft could facilitate that but he wanted something in return. He told Sherlock that, once the hospital staff agreed that he was fit to be discharged, he would arrange for him to have assistance at home, since Molly clearly could not provide the care he needed on her own, if he would co-operate with all therapeutic protocols. He must follow his therapy programmes to the letter, without dissent. If he didn't, then he would have to go to a rehabilitation centre and do all his rehab as an in-patient. Grudgingly, Sherlock agreed.

ooOoo

The highlight of Sherlock's day was when Molly came to visit, in the late afternoon, and brought William. That first day, after he had woken up, been annoyed and gone back to sleep, William had been brought in by Marie, the nanny. He had entered the room, usually empty, except for his father and mother, to find a small crowd of strangers, all standing around Daddy, staring at him and talking amongst themselves. He had woven a path between all these adults and climbed up onto Sherlock's bed, noticing at once that his father's sleeping position had changed. He was lying on his side, curled up, as he normally did. William had leaned over Sherlock's shoulder and said, in a stage whisper,

'Daddy, am I allowed to wake you up?' Sherlock had responded, if slugishly, opening his eyes and turning his head towards the child's voice, a smile breaking across his face.

'Oh, you're awake already!' William had whooped, delighted to get a reaction from his father after so long without. Sherlock had stretched out his arm, unsteadily, and wrapped it around the little boy, hugging him to his body and burying his face in the child's hair. William had hugged him back and the medical staff, moved to silence by the sheer joyfulness of the reunion, discretely removed themselves from the room, leaving Sherlock alone with his family and his best friend.

Every evening since, William had arrived at about the same time and Sherlock really looked forward to seeing him. William was the one person for whom Sherlock made a special effort to speak. He felt more comfortable talking to William, who didn't try to finish his sentences for him, who didn't look uncomfortable when it took him more than one attempt to get a word out, who waited patiently for him to respond and didn't start speaking again before he'd received a reply.

To be fair, he felt the same about Molly, but they had alternative means of communication. Molly, he realised, was the best kisser ever. He didn't think he had really appreciated before that this was the case but the kiss that had reached into his comfortable cocoon and dragged him out into the world again, lodged in the forefront of his memory and sustained him when she wasn't there. She no longer sat by his bedside, day and night, but she came to see him in the mornings, after taking William to school, and again in the evenings, after collecting William from school. She talked to him about speaking to the obstetrician about a home birth and being referred to an independent midwife, whom she was going to meet the following week. That lady would then get to know them, as a family, and would be able to help them decide which would be the best room in the flat for the birth to take place, how they would like to go about their home birth and who else, if anyone, they would like to be present. All this talk of the future helped him come to terms with the present, because it gave him that extra incentive to co-operate with his therapists and work hard at his rehab, so that he would be fit and able to be Molly's birth partner when the big day came.

ooOoo

Mycroft was reviewing the tapes of the interrogation of Dame Joan and wondering what game she was playing. She was giving them a lot of information, some of which was pretty obsolete, like the old, dead double agents, but some was quite useful, like the sleeper cells. They could be rounded up and used as a bartering tool with the FSB. But, as yet, she had not asked for anything in return. Was she giving them this information as a free sample of what she might still have in reserve? Was this her way of plea bargaining, hinting that she wanted to make a deal? Or did she have an entirely different trick up her sleeve? He needed to speak to her again, in person. She had achieved one thing, at least. She certainly had his attention.

The next morning, Mycroft called the team together again.

'I think we've given her enough leeway. I propose to ask her, straight out, what she wants from this 'sharefest' that she's been enjoying. She clearly has a plan. If she doesn't come clean, I propose we send her to Paddington Green and let her sample their hospitality for a day or two. She might appreciate us a little more, if she gets a taste of how things could be.' Having said his piece, Mycroft went downstairs and into the Interview Room. Dame Joan was already there, sitting in her usual place, though she was not looking her usual immaculate, well-groomed self. Her hair was brushed straight back from her forehead, she wore no make-up and, instead of her expensive designer suit, she wore an ill-fitting boiler suit, light blue in colour. But she still maintained her air of dignity, which Mycroft had to admire.

'Mycroft, how nice to see you again,' she purred, with an ingratiating smile. 'How is your brother?'

'He has brain-damage, Dame Joan. Not irreversible, so I understand, but he will need a considerable amount of rehabilitation to get back to his former level of functioning.' He returned her smile with a stony, expressionless gaze.

'I can see I am not your favourite person,' the woman almost smirked.

'I never allow personal feelings to cloud my professional judgement,' he replied.

'So what's on the agenda today?'

'Perhaps you could tell me. You seem to be calling the shots, ma'am.'

'Do you think I want to make a deal, Mycroft?'

'Do you?'

'Perhaps.'

'With what?'

With my connections.'

'Which are?'

'Wouldn't you love to know?'

'I'll be honest with you, ma'am, I am intrigued to know where all this is leading but I am beginning to get rather bored with the process. You clearly have something with which to barter but you seem remarkably coy about stating your terms. We do, as you know, have people who could extract from you whatever information you may have. I have given you the opportunity to do this the easy way but, if you are not ready to co-operate, I would be more than happy to try it the hard way. I hope you understand why I say you can expect no special dispensation from me. So, if you want to make a deal, you had better put something significant on the table.'

They sat, staring at one another for quite some time – he presenting his most inscrutable façade, she deliberating whether or not she had done enough to convince them that they should give her what she wanted. At long last, she spoke.

'Very well, Mycroft, I think we both understand one another. I'm ready to present my terms.'

He leaned back in his chair, folded his hands in his lap and said,

'Shall we begin, then? Ladies first.'

ooOoo


	32. Chapter 31

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Thirty One**

'Are you familiar with my family history, Mycroft?'

'Yes, ma'am. Your maternal grandfather was a White Russian, who fled the Bolsheviks, in 1917. Your father's family were Jewish and fled Nazi Germany in 1938. They both settled in London and the rest, as they say, is history.'

'So, with that background, one would imagine I would be brought up to revere the country which gave sanctuary to both sides of my family tree, which I was. I grew up to be a true blue, dyed in the wool Anglophile. Then I went to Oxford. At university, for the first time in my life, I met people with a different point of view to every other person I had known previously, people who saw beyond the gratitude of a refugee for their adopted country. They showed me the exploitation and inequality that lay behind the glorious British way of life. My eyes were opened. You could say, to use the modern parlance, I was 'turned'. I crossed the floor.'

Mycroft remained impassive throughout this preamble. It confirmed his suspicions. It was a common scenario. Spoilt, sheltered, Upper Middle Class teenagers leave Public School, go off to University, discover idealism and become cannon fodder for the subversive evangelists. She would have been a fruit ripe for plucking, especially in the Seventies, when the Cold War was at its height.

'So when I talk about my loyalty to my country, Mycroft, I am not referring to the United Kingdom, I refer to my homeland, Mother Russia. For more than half my life, I have sworn allegiance to a different flag.'

'So, what changed? Last time we spoke, you asked me where that got you. Am I to understand you have become disenchanted with your adopted county?'

'I fear they have become disenchanted with me.'

ooOoo

For Sherlock, each day had become a busy round of Speech Therapy, Physiotherapy and Occupational Therapy, not to mention the major time-consuming activities of getting up, showering, getting dressed and eating. Shirt buttons, at the moment, were impossible – well, fastenings of any kind. The buttons were so small and fiddly and zip fasteners required two handed co-ordination, mid-line awareness and the ability to perform a pincer action between thumb and forefinger. Who knew?! And Sherlock did not do 'casual'. He had his suits and shirts and he had his PJ's and T-shirts, and nothing in between. Molly had eased the situation by getting him half a dozen extra pairs of PJ bottoms and an equal number of t-shirts. The shirt buttons could be tackled at a later date, as could the zips.

Typing on his laptop took SO LONG. How that didn't hit the wall, along with breakfast, lunch and dinner, was a minor miracle. But, in so many ways, that machine was the saviour of his sanity, in these early days. He used it to research the cerebellum. Mycroft negotiated with the hospital to permit his brother to tap into their Wi-Fi – something patients were not normally allowed to do. But Mycroft explained about Sherlock's hyperactive mind and his passion for research and problem-solving. He managed to convince the powers-that-be that, in order to survive an extended stay in hospital without becoming unmanageable, Sherlock needed to be kept occupied, both physically and mentally.

Sherlock was fascinated by what he discovered about the cerebellum. Called the 'little brain', it was a unique entity, which sat beneath the two halves of the cerebral cortex and its structure was completely different to that of the cerebrum. Rather than being a structure of solid mass, it was, in fact, a continuous, thin layer of tissue, repeatedly folded over, like a concertina or a paper fan. This image put Sherlock in mind of the old-fashioned vision, favoured by early sci-fi films, of massive mainframes, spitting out a constant stream of paper, printed with computer code, which folded itself up into a neat, flat pile, in the receiving tray.

This concept, he found, was not so far from the truth, since the cerebellum was responsible for receiving sensory input from the spinal cord and other parts of the brain and integrating them, in order to fine tune movement. It was a mediator, a facilitator. By thinking of it as a constant stream of computer code, he could visualise the gaps in that continuous stream – the spaces created by the anoxia that he had suffered. He understood that he needed to fill those gaps, replace the code, join up the dots. The only way to do that was by repetitive practice of motor skills, going through the motions, again and again, re-defining the nerve pathways that had been wiped clean by the lack of oxygen, re-learning that which he had learned before, over all those preceding years. Thinking of it in this way, made the task seem achievable. He'd done that learning once – he could do it again. He was engaged and purposeful. His therapists were impressed by his positivity and commitment. He might express anger and frustration, from time to time, but he was never self-pitying. They admired that, immensely.

Night time was not so good. It dragged by and allowed far too much time for thinking. Every night, he seemed to think of something else he couldn't do. On the third night, since he regained consciousness, it suddenly hit him that he would not be able to play the violin. It came as such a shock that he struggled upright, in the hospital bed, heaving and gasping, choking on air. He had to use Eve Matthews' relaxation techniques to calm himself. Then he lay back on his pillows and began to perform the finger exercises that he had learned as a young child, to strengthen his digits and increase their dexterity. He could practice those exercises at any time, wherever he might be, and so he would.

ooOoo

Having decided to talk, there was no stopping Dame Joan. She seemed enamoured of the confessional. Mycroft let her blether on.

'I was sixty-six, last birthday, Mycroft. I wanted to retire. I spoke to my Russian masters and told them I had earned my days in the sun. I asked for a golden handshake. They turned me down. They said the British Government could shoulder the burden of keeping me, in my dotage. They weren't prepared to give me a bean.'

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, in acknowledgement of the ingratitude of her handlers.

'Both you and I know that, as public servants, we live the champagne lifestyle but without the champagne pay packet to go along with it – unless one has the good fortune to possess a private income, as, of course, do you, dear boy. I was not so fortunate. The pension I can expect from my post at the British Secret Service is not going to keep me in the manner to which I have become accustomed. I had always assumed that the Kremlin would make up the deficit. You can imagine how I felt, when they said 'Niet'!'

'I'm going to venture a wild guess and say you decided to try a spot of private enterprise,' Mycroft proposed.

'Quite correct. I decided that, rather than passing my hot exclusives to my miserly masters, I would have a bash at selling to the highest bidder. Unfortunately, it required a degree of management of the bidding wars that ensued and it was evidence of this activity that the Anti-bullying Committee was about to, inadvertently, stumble across. So, I had to shut them down.' She stopped there, and seemed to expect some sort of comment from him. He obliged.

'Well, Dame Joan, this has all been terribly interesting, though not entirely unexpected, but I was of the opinion that you wished to broker a deal.'

'I do have a proposal to make.'

'I'm all ears.'

'In my privileged position as a double agent, I have acquired as much knowledge of what passes muster at the Kremlin as I have of what we get up to at Vauxhall. For a small consideration, I'm willing to share.'

'We already know quite a bit about what goes on at the Kremlin. We already have people in there,' Mycroft pointed out.

'You only know what they want you to know, trust me in that, Mycroft. I can give you what they don't want you to know, but only if they think I'm still in the good books. They can't know my cover is blown, or they'll shut me down. And I mean that in a similar sense to Litvinenko. Actually, speaking of Litvinenko, I can tell you who was really behind that, as opposed to who you think was.'

Mycroft thought he knew what she was proposing but he needed to clarify.

'Are you suggesting that we behave as though nothing has happened, you go back to doing your job and we go on paying you but, instead of telling them about us, you tell us about them?'

'Well, almost, dear boy. I go back to doing my job, for a while, then you put me out to grass, and give me a nice big fat pension, in return for which, I tell you everything I know.'

Mycroft pursed his lips, steepled his fingers under his chin and gazed at the woman, impassively, for about a minute, then cleared his throat, before speaking.

'As you well know, Dame Joan, it is not in my power to grant this dispensation but I will present your proposal to my superiors and it will be for them to decide whether or not to accept your terms.'

'Quite so, Mycroft, I will leave the matter in your capable hands. I think we're done, now, don't you?' As she spoke, she gave him such a smug smile that his smooth façade was almost ruffled but, with supreme effort, he controlled his facial expression, rose from his chair, nodded to her and to the guard, by the door, and left the room.

Inside the lift, he gave vent to his true feelings, slamming the side of his fist against the wall. He knew they would go for it, his superiors. It was too good an offer to resist. She would live out her years in comfort, in return for spilling the beans on her former masters, and, in the meantime, his brother was having to relearn how to do up his own bloody trousers! When the lift stopped and he stepped out, crossed the landing and entered Anthea's office, only she would have known that anything untoward had occurred. The slightly elevated colour in his cheers and the tension in his clenched fists would have told her all she needed to know. He gave her a curt nod, passed through the connecting door into his own office and sat down, heavily, at his desk. A few minutes later, he was still sitting, gazing at nothing in particular, when Anthea knocked and entered, carrying a cup of his favourite tea. She placed the cup and saucer on his desk, nodded briefly, and left the room. He reached out and picked up the cup, sipping it, pensively, then took up the phone and dialled the Home Secretary's internal number.

ooOoo


	33. Chapter 32

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Thirty Two**

Molly dropped William off at school, with a hug, a kiss and a final wave, as he ran off into the play area, outside his classroom, where the children gathered in the mornings. Although she had been back at work for two weeks, she had taken the day off because today was a Red Letter Day. After nearly four weeks in hospital, Sherlock was coming home. Molly was excited but also apprehensive. She had gone around the flat, the night before, making an impromptu inventory of all the things that Sherlock might have difficulty with.

The main light switches were small and fiddly but they rarely used them– apart from in the hall and the corridor to the bedrooms – as they tended use lamps. The floor lamp had a foot switch – fine – the table lamps in the sitting room were fiddly – not fine – the bedside lamp had a rocker switch – undecided. The door handles were round knobs – awkward. Lever handles would have been better. The taps in the kitchen had a lever – fine. Taps in the en suite, lever handles – fine. Toilet flush in en suite, one of those press switches in the cistern – awkward – but the toilet in William's bathroom had a lever flush – fine. At least there were no stairs, but he would need to practice stairs so that might be a disadvantage. However, the stairs in the entrance hall could be co-opted into use for that. The switches on the cooker – no, she had to stop. They would find out, soon enough what might be a problem and what was not. The Occupational Therapist had made an appointment to drop by in the afternoon, to have a look around the flat and see if there was any need for adaptations.

Molly walked back to the flat to wait for the car Mycroft was sending. He had wanted to come to the hospital himself but there was a lot going on at the department at the moment and he was needed to manage it all. Dame Joan's revelations had brought into question the efficacy of all their screening processes, so an in-depth audit had been ordered. Everyone's histories were being reviewed. Molly knew Mycroft was furious over the decision to accept that woman's offer to turn Queen's evidence. In deference to his personal involvement, he had been excused from playing any part in planning for the woman's retirement. He was grateful for that concession. When he told Sherlock about 'the deal', he was pretty sanguine about the whole thing. He just shrugged and changed the subject. Sherlock was good at ignoring things that he didn't want to deal with. He just deleted them from his hard drive. The doorbell buzzed and Molly looked at the security screen to see the chauffeur. She picked up her bag and coat and left the flat.

When she walked into his hospital room, she found him sitting on his bed, looking and, indeed, feeling like Holmes Minor, waiting at Prep School, to be collected by the family chauffeur, at the end of term. He was dressed in a shirt and suit. Molly gave him a curious and enquiring smile, as she crossed the room, into his arms.

'I had help,' he admitted, with a rueful grin.

'You look gorgeous,' Molly declared and kissed him, just to confirm it.

'Kissing therapy, my favourite kind,' he quipped. His speech was still slow but the enunciation had shown a marked improvement, the product of the intensive period of speech therapy, coupled with his own determination. Having to concentrate so hard on every syllable, he had adopted the strategy of keeping his utterances short and to the point.

'Can we go now, or are you waiting to see someone?' Molly asked.

The doctor's coming. Sign me off,' he explained. Molly hitched herself up onto the bed, next to him, he put his arm round her and she rested her head on his shoulder.

'I've missed you. I've had to do my own bio oil massage. I'm not nearly so good at it as you,' she commented.

'Missed you, too. Massage? That's good therapy, too,' he whispered and they both had a fit of giggling, at the double meaning he managed to put into that short phrase.

The door opened and the consultant entered, with his posse in tow.

'Mr Holmes,' he said, extending his hand, in greeting. Sherlock reached out and, with admirable accuracy, grasped the man's hand and they shook. 'Very good, Mr Holmes. You have made remarkable progress. I have every confidence that you will make a full recovery, if you continue to put as much effort into your rehab as you have so far. Now, you know that Miss Osmond will be calling on you this afternoon?' Sherlock nodded. 'Right. She will do a home assessment; see if you need any adaptations…'

'No adaptations,' Sherlock interrupted, forcefully. The doctor wrinkled his brow, taken aback. This was the first time Sherlock had shown any sign of rebellion. Sherlock took a deep breath and his own brow wrinkled with the effort of formulating his response.

'I live in the normal world. I will adapt to it, not it to me,' he said and stared the doctor down, challenging him to question the logic of that statement. The doctor was even more taken aback, but, after a brief, awkward pause, the he exhaled and smiled.

'Mr Holmes, I wish all my patients were as motivated as you. OK, well, we will be seeing you in clinic, and you will be attending your therapy sessions every week, so I won't say goodbye but I will say good luck. I expect you are eager to get home, so I won't keep you any longer.' The man shook Sherlock's hand again, smiled at Molly and left the room. The staff nurse gave Molly an envelope, containing copies of Sherlock's medical notes, to be given to his GP. He didn't have any medication to take, so there was none to hand over. All that was left to do was to gather up his belongings and make the short journey to the exit. A porter hovered in the doorway, with a wheelchair. Sherlock eyed it, dubiously, and was just about to protest when Molly squeezed his arm and murmured,

'It's protocol, Sherlock. Just go with it, yeah? Please?'

He hesitated then nodded his assent. The porter brought the wheelchair over to the bed and Sherlock lowered himself into it, feeling self-conscious. Even more motivation to overcome this thing, he thought. Walking with a stick, was one thing, but a chair – no. He was not ready to relinquish his independence to that degree. He had the deepest respect for anyone who did not have that choice but, right now, he did.

Molly picked up his valise, which was already packed, and plonked it across his knees.

'You can carry the bag, OK?' she ribbed him, and followed the porter out of the room.

ooOoo

Walking the short distance from the car to the front door of their building, was quite a challenge for Sherlock. He had walked up and down the corridors of the hospital, but the floor surfaces there were smooth and flat, with no irregularities, what so ever. He had never realised, before, how uneven the flagstones were, in the path to their door. It was the first time he had walked without the safety net of a convenient wall, available to be pressed into service, should the need arise. It was also the first time he had met a step, in real life. The ones in the therapy suite were very regular and had a sturdy handrail attached. This one was only two inches high but there was nothing to hold onto. He managed it, anyway, and felt a huge sense of both achievement and relief when he reached the doorway, and could put a steadying hand on the frame. In the sitting room, he used the back of the sofa as a handrail, while he paused to catch his breath. As Molly walked past on her way to the kitchen, she put her arm around his waist and pressed her cheek to his back.

'Welcome home, darling,' she said. 'Cup of tea?'

'Love one,' he answered, taking one hand off the sofa back to stroke her arm. She went off to put the kettle on whilst he looked at the sofa and the armchair, wondering which would be the easiest to get out of. He opted for the armchair. It was more upright and had two convenient arms to push up on. It was the logical choice. Now, drinking a cup of hot tea – that was going to be interesting, he thought to himself. Every day, a new challenge.

ooOoo

Greg Lestrade was a very angry man. He felt as though he had been angry for a long time, without respite. He'd been angry when Mycroft's people had turned up at New Scotland Yard and requisitioned his attempted murder suspect. But he had bowed to a higher authority. He was angry, again, when he went to the Anti-venom Repository at Guys to pick up the adapted ring that the suspect had, allegedly, used to try to murder her victim, only to find that it had been picked up already, by Mycroft's people. He'd been angry when he went to the hospital to visit Sherlock and found Molly, sitting by his bed, putting on a brave face but beside herself with worry. His anger on that occasion had been brought on by a sense of impotence. He'd always had a soft spot for Molly. He felt almost paternal towards her. He wished there was more he could have done.

But all this anger paled into insignificance when he called Mycroft and asked him when he would be allowed access to his suspect, in order to charge her with attempted murder, only to be told that the lady in question was not to be charged with anything, was going to be let off, Scot Free. He had actually shouted at Mycroft.

'What the Hell are you saying, Mr Holmes? She nearly killed your own brother!'

'I am well aware of that fact, believe it or not, Inspector. The matter is out of my hands. The decision has been taken by a higher authority,' Mycroft had retorted, with his usual, annoyingly calm, aplomb.

According to Sherlock, you are the highest authority in the British Government,' Lestrade had countered.

'Sherlock has always been prone to a degree of exaggeration. I hold a very minor position….'

'Oh, stuff it, Mycroft. Stuff it where the monkey sticks his nuts!' Lestrade had roared and slammed down the phone.

He was rather surprised and not a little wary when, later that afternoon, he had seen Mycroft Holmes strolling through his department, heading straight for his office. He rose from his seat, as Mycroft came in, through the open door.

'Oh, do sit down, Inspector. We are old adversaries. Let's not stand on ceremony,' Mycroft opined and closed the door behind him, before taking the chair opposite Lestrade's, on the other side of his desk. He placed his hands, one on top of the other, on the handle of his umbrella, the point of which was braced against the floor, and gazed at the DI over those hands, lips pursed, as though considering his options, then shrugged, propped the umbrella against the desk, sat back in the chair and crossed one leg over the other.

'I am about to do something that could cost me my job,' he began. 'In fact, if this ever got out, I could go to prison, so I hope I can rely on your complete discretion.' He stopped and stared at the Inspector, waiting for a response. Lestrade thought about this for a moment, a little nonplussed by Mycroft's transparency. Eventually, he answered,

'I give you my word.'

'Good,' said his visitor. Mycroft then folded his hands in his lap and went on,

'The Home Secretary, in consultation with the Prime Minister, has granted your suspect immunity from prosecution in return for her providing information vital to national security. She has, on her own admission, been guilty of repeated acts of treason, throughput her entire career as a diplomat and, more recently, as Director General of MI5. She has abused her privileged position to obtain state secrets and has then passed them on to an enemy of the state. However, the information she has to give is, apparently, of such a sensitive nature that the senior members of the government have decided to broker a deal with the traitor.' Mycroft paused and waited for Lestrade to comment. Lestrade was temporarily struck dumb but soon recovered the power of speech.

'You have got to be kidding!'

'If only,' was Mycroft's reply. 'Obviously, I am less than pleased. She was willing to kill my brother, in order to save her own skin and, Anthea tells me, when she realised the game was up, she tried to kill herself, so she would not have to face public exposure and humiliation. When that didn't work either, she cooked up this scheme to get the British tax payers to support her for the rest of her miserable life, in exchange for informing on the nasty goings on inside the Kremlin and the FSB. She claims to know who was really behind the death of Alexander Litvinenko. No doubt, she will also have the inside track on the sudden demise of Boris Berezovsky. Frankly, I wouldn't trust her as far as I could throw her but they are convinced she's kosher. So, you see, Inspector, it really is out of my domain, I'm sorry to say. Personally, I'd like to see her rot on hell – via a video link, obviously.'

Both men sat and looked at one another for a moment or two, then Greg Lestrade stood up, walked over to his filing cabinet, opened the top drawer and took out a bottle of whisky and two tumblers. He put the glasses on his desk and unscrewed the lid of the bottle.

'I'm sure this is not up to your usual standard of tipple, but I need one of these and I suspect you do, too,' Lestrade declared.

'I would love one, thank you,' Mycroft replied, and watched as the Inspector poured two generous tots. They raised there glasses.

'To Justice,' said Lestrade. 'May it rest in peace.'

ooOoo


	34. Chapter 33

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Happy birthday, Charlie. This one's for you!**

**Chapter Thirty Three**

John walked in through the door to the flat and called out,

'Honey, I'm home!'

'I'm in here,' came Mary's voice from the bedroom. John walked through to the bedroom, to find Mary curled up on top of the bed.

'You alright, love?' he asked. She pushed herself up on one hand and, with a mixture of excitement and apprehension, said,

'I think I'm in labour!'

Mary's due date had come and gone, nearly a week previously, but her obstetrician had advised her that due dates were just a guide, that, in actual fact, conception could have taken place at any time during a two week window of opportunity. And, since they had been 'trying for a baby' quite a bit, during that time frame, it was anyone's guess as to when the goal was actually scored. Still, that was all immaterial now, since Jelly Bean seemed to have decided that today was the day.

The contractions had started at about three in the afternoon. They were irregular and not at all painful, so she assumed they were Braxton Hicks. After an hour or so, they stopped, so she figured she'd been right. Then, about an hour later, they began again, so she had come to lie down and wait for John to come home. He was on days, so she knew he would be home soon.

John felt her abdomen and it was very firm.

'Having another one?' he asked. Mary nodded. He lay down on the bed next to her and wrapped his arms round her, the doctor taking a back seat to dad-to-be, as his own heart rate increased, with anticipation.

The start-stop contractions continued through-out the evening, whilst John made supper and they watched some TV. By around ten o'clock, they were about ten minutes apart, with each one lasting about half a minute, but there was still nothing that could be described as pain, apart from a dull ache in her lumbar region.

'Let's go to bed,' John suggested.

'I don't think I could sleep,' Mary replied. 'You go, John. I'll wake you up, if anything happens.' John was dog-tired, from his busy day at work so, reluctantly, he went off to bed, leaving Mary on the sofa, watching a Rom Com.

'John! John! Wake up, John!'

It was three in the morning and John was soundly asleep when Mary's insistent voice broke through his dreamscape and dragged him back to consciousness, as if from the bottom of a very deep well.

'What…? What's the matter?' he mumbled, pushing himself to sitting, in the bed, looking round, still not quite awake.

'Something's happening, John,' Mary replied, vehemently. John was instantly awake.

'I've timed the contractions. They're every five minutes,' said Mary, her eyes wide, more with trepidation than excitement.

'How long do they last?' John asked.

'About a minute.'

'Are they painful?'

'No.'

'OK, love, let's ring the hospital and ask them what they think we should do,' John decided, picking up his phone and dialling the number for the Maternity Unit. Having listened to the information, the nurse suggested they stay at home but that Mary should try to sleep, as she would need all her energy to cope with the labour, as it advanced. John reiterated this advice and, eventually, coaxed Mary into bed. He held her close and tried to get her to relax, but he could feel her heart beating fast and her breath was a little ragged. She was afraid.

Two hours later, Mary was still awake. The contractions were still regular but were quite painful, now.

'I want to go to the hospital, John. I want some pain relief.'

John rang the hospital and told the nurse they were coming in. When they arrived and Mary was examined, she was only two centimetres dilated, so there was still a long way to go. The midwife advised her to have some pain relief and go back home and try to sleep, rather than hanging around in the Birthing Centre. She gave Mary an intramuscular injection of diamorphine and they caught a cab back home.

Back at the flat, John made Mary a milky drink and persuaded her to go back to bed. As the diamorphine took effect, Mary relaxed and drifted into sleep. John sat in the bedroom chair, to avoid any risk of disturbing her rest, and, eventually, dozed off, too. Mary had been in labour for nearly sixteen hours and things were not going smoothly, at all.

At half past seven, as daylight seeped through the bedroom curtains, John woke up, struggled out of the chair and went into the sitting room to ring work and tell them he would not be in, and why. The HR woman wished them both good luck and John hung up. He staggered into the kitchen and put on the kettle to make tea. Whilst waiting for it to boil, he sent a brief text to Sherlock – more for Molly's benefit than that of his friend, whom he did not expect to be that interested in his wife's labour. Mary was still sleeping, so he didn't disturb her. He lay down on the sofa, with his morning cuppa on the coffee table beside him.

ooOoo

Molly reached out and shut off the alarm on her phone. She lay in the warm comfort of Sherlock's sleeping embrace for a moment or two, then lifted his arm carefully from across her body and rolled out of bed, padding off to the en suite bathroom. Eight months pregnant and feeling the size of a house, she was still working. The hospital HR people, as in the case of her first pregnancy, with William, had insisted that her duties change so that she was more of a desk jockey, these days. She didn't object. It meant less time on her feet, which was a blessing, since she was now carrying about two stones extra weight and her arches had fallen, as a result. She stood in the shower and let the water run off her shoulders, and down over her distended belly. She was carrying this baby quite high and she tried to remember what folk law had to say about baby bumps that sat high. She knew it was supposed to indicate the gender of the baby, but she couldn't remember which way it went. Still, they would know, soon enough. In about a month's time, in fact. Stepping out of the shower, she wrapped a big towel around herself and made her way back into the bedroom. The bed was empty, now. Sherlock was up.

When she walked through the sitting room, into the kitchen, fifteen minutes later, Sherlock was just buttering her toast. He pushed the plate across the table and smiled at her.

'Had a text from John,' he told her. 'Mary's in labour.'

'Oh, that's lovely!' Molly replied. 'That is so exciting! I do hope it all goes well. I wonder what it will be?'

Sherlock's response to that rhetorical question was a shrug.

He had come a long way since the attack, five months earlier that had almost killed him. Anyone who had not known him before the incident, with the double agent and the neurotoxin, would have thought he had made a full recovery but those who had, could see that he did not yet move with the grace and fluidity that he had before. He was still a little clumsy and heavy in his movements. But he was working on that. In addition to his regular physiotherapy sessions, he had taken up fencing again. He had gotten back in touch with his old fencing master, from school, who had recommended a good man in Central London, who did a lot of work teaching actors how to look convincing with a blade. Sherlock had met with the man and explained his circumstances. The instructor was more than happy to take him on as a private pupil and he went twice a week for lessons. This had served many purposes. It got Sherlock out of the house, it gave him a good physical workout and it got his adrenalin up. His speed and agility had come on in leaps and bounds, in the few, short weeks since he had started the lessons and he was beginning to move more like the old Sherlock.

The violin had also proven to be a very useful training tool. The first time he tried to play, after the event, he had sounded a bit like William – which William had found amusing, if no one else. He and his son had become practice buddies. They had done scales and fingering exercises together, practiced bowing exercises and learned tunes from William's primer. Molly apologised to the neighbours but, in the main, they rehearsed in the late afternoon, when most of the other residents of the building were still out at work, so no one was excessively inconvenienced. And, as both Sherlock's and William's playing improved, the other residents were treated to some very beautiful music. They were both, however, a long way from concert standard but it gave them yet another shared experience.

The one area which caused Sherlock the most frustration was his speech. He had used to be able to speak almost as fast as he could think but there was still a huge deficit in that department. However, his Speech Therapist reminded him that practice made perfect, so he doubled his efforts when it came to performing his lip and tongue exercises. He still maintained that kissing was the best therapy for those particular parts of his anatomy, so Molly was his training partner there.

Whilst Molly was eating her toast and drinking her morning milk, Sherlock went to get William up and dressed. Molly usually dropped their son off at school, on her way to work. They had fallen into an easy routine but Molly knew that Sherlock was bored a great deal of the time, during the day. He had not been able to return to work, yet, looking at cold cases for the Met but, once his co-ordination improved sufficiently for him to dispense with the use of the walking stick and manage the stairs, he had started going over to Baker Street and looking at old, unsolved cases, from books on crime and from the Internet. It filled a gap but was nothing like the adrenalin fix of the real thing.

Three months after the incident, as a reward for hard work and dedication in his therapy sessions, Molly had brought him a cerebellum from St Bart's mortuary – one that had been donated to medical science – and bought him his very own histopathology kit, including a microtome, for slicing the tissue into thin sections, a tissue floatation water bath, a paraffin dispenser, a block wax trimmer and a small slide warmer. In fact, everything he needed in order to section his cerebellum and make the tissue slides to study under the microscope. She had arranged for it all to be delivered to Baker Street and Mrs Hudson had used her 'little old lady' charms to persuade the delivery man to carry all the packages up the stairs to Flat B and put them on the kitchen table. When Sherlock walked into the flat, completely unawares, he was about to complain about all the rubbish cluttering his workspace, when her saw the gleeful expression on his landlady's face. Unwrapping each item, his expression changed from suspicion, through curiosity to sheer delight. He was beside himself with excitement, like a kid on Christmas morning. Here were lots of fiddly tasks to improve his fine motor control and co-ordination. Shirt buttons were nothing, compared to this. He had mastered the shirt buttons, though, and the zips. That had been a major milestone and was duly celebrated.

Sherlock kissed Molly and William goodbye and waved them off, through the front window, then went into the bedroom to shower and shave and get dressed. It was a fencing day, today. He was still using an electric razor but it was another of his goals to go back to using a blade. He felt it gave a much closer finish and he was not a fan of stubble. Whilst fastening up his shirt buttons, he thought about John and Mary and wondered how things were going. It would be their turn, soon, his and Molly's. He would get to witness his own child's birth, in the flesh this time, not via a DVD, on a laptop, in an airport lounge. He could hardly wait.

ooOoo

'John, can you ring the hospital again, please?' Mary was standing next to him, shaking his shoulder. 'The pain relief has worn off and it really hurts, now.' She sounded panicky and close to tears.

John sat up and reached for his phone, almost knocking over his cold cup of tea. It was eleven in the morning.

'How frequent are the contractions?' the midwife wanted to know. John relayed the question to his wife.

'I don't know. I can't tell. It just hurts all the time!' The lady on the other end of the call could hear the concern in Mary's voice and advised John to bring her straight in to the Unit. Mary went back to the bedroom to dress, whilst John used the app on his phone to summon a cab. It arrived five minutes later and they were off to hospital again.

Mary was admitted this time and the couple were shown to a Progress Suite. Mary was put straight onto the bed and the midwife listened to the baby's heart through a hand-held foetal heart monitor. The heart rate was absolutely fine. The midwife then gave Mary another injection of diamorphine and advised that she was still only two centimetres dilated. She suggested Mary take a bath, since not only would this help her relax but she would feel better with a fresh, clean body. That was when Mary realised she was quite clammy with perspiration.

John, dressed now in scrubs, sat beside the bath and talked to her, in an attempt to distract her and to calm her nerves. After the bath, she put on a clean, fresh hospital gown and lay down on the bed. The midwife fitted a foetal monitor belt round her waist and then left them in peace. Mary fell into a shallow, restless sleep. John sat beside the bed, wishing he had done some obstetric revision and trying to remember what little he had learned on the subject at medical school. From the little he did remember, he knew this was not the way things went, normally. Despite his calm exterior, he was close to panic himself, but he had to hold it together, for Mary's sake.

The midwife woke Mary at about five in the afternoon, to examine her again. Still only two centimetres and the pain had eased but she was back to having regular contractions, at five minute intervals. The decision was made to break her waters, in an attempt to speed things up a bit. She asked Mary if she needed more pain relief, but she declined. The pain, she said, was not too bad, at the moment.

ooOoo

Molly arrived home from work to find Marie preparing the vegetables for supper, whilst Sherlock and William practiced scales on their violins.

'Any news?' she asked Marie.

'Sorry?' Marie had no idea to what she was referring.

'Oh, hasn't he told you? Oh, God! Sherlock? Didn't you tell Marie?' Molly called, over the sound of the two violins. Sherlock stopped playing and looked across at the two women, mystified.

'Didn't I tell Marie what?' he asked.

'That Mary was in labour?'

'No. Why? Should I have?' Molly rolled her eyes and Marie giggled.

Sherlock and William began to play, again.

'So, is there any news?' Molly repeated, to Sherlock, this time. No reply.

'Sherlock!' she yelled. He stopped playing again and looked across, even more mystified.

'What?' he asked.

'Is there any news – about the baby – John and Mary's baby?' Molly spelt out, in words of no more than two syllables.

'Oh! No. Haven't heard.' He stood, looking at Molly, to ascertain whether he was expected to contribute any more to this conversation. When she just shook her head, in mock amazement, he turned back to William, shrugged and began to play scales all over again.

ooOoo

Six hours later, back in the Progress Suite, nothing had changed. The contractions were regular but not too painful and Mary was still only two centimetres dilated. John was beginning to hate the phrase 'two centimetres dilated'. Would this baby ever be born, he wondered, but only to himself. It was decided to move Mary to the Delivery Suite and put her on a drip, to induce the birth. The couple were advised that the contractions would become much stronger, last longer and be more painful than previously, as Mary moved into the next phase of her labour. And they were not joking. Within half an hour, Mary was begging for more pain relief. She tried the Entanox but it was not enough. They gave her another shot of diamorphine – her third shot. John listened anxiously to the baby's heartbeat, through the foetal heart monitor, wondering what effect all the diamorphine might be having on the infant, but the rhythm remained regular, rapid and strong.

The drip was having an effect on more than just the contractions. By four in the morning, Mary was four centimetres dilated, and by eight, she was six centimetres. Although this was progress, the midwife was concerned for Mary. She had been in labour for forty-one hours, with hardly any sleep. The worry was that, by the time it came to the business end of the labour, she would be too exhausted to push. The midwife advised her to have an epidural. Mary agreed without argument. She was too tired to do anything else. However, when the epidural took effect, Mary was relieved, beyond measure, to be not in pain any more. She fell asleep, almost at once, and slept soundly for four hours. John, on the other hand, could not sleep. He was grateful that Mary was enjoying some respite but he was still concerned for the baby. He sat in the chair, holding Mary's hand and listening to the baby's heartbeat.

After four hours of sleep, the midwife woke Mary and examined her again. She was fully dilated at last. The effect of the epidural had worn off and Mary could feel the contractions again. The midwife topped up the epidural and told her that it was time to start pushing, so she did.

John's role now changed from that of 'calming influence' to that of 'breathing instructor'. He counted the breaths for Mary, as she lay on her side, holding her eye contact, encouraging and congratulating. He gave her sips of water, through a straw and stroked her forehead, telling her she was beautiful. But after an hour of pushing, the baby was no nearer to being born. The midwife summoned a doctor. The doctor took one look at the exhausted woman and her equally exhausted husband and ordered an emergency caesarean. Mary tried to protest.

'No, John, tell them, no! I wanted to have this baby for you myself!'

He stroked her hair away from her face and told her how much he loved her and how proud he was of how she had persevered for nearly two whole days but that he could not bear to watch her suffer any longer. He begged her to accept the caesarean, so, reluctantly, she agreed. Without further ado, she was whisked away to the operating theatre. John followed behind the hospital trolley and stood at Mary's head, as they put up the green screen to shield their view of what the medics were doing to Mary's abdomen, since the operation was performed under the epidural and she was fully awake.

There then followed the longest ten minutes of John's entire life, as he concentrated on calming and reassuring his wife, until they both heard a baby's loud and lusty cry, from the other side of the screen. It was as much as he could do not to charge forward, to greet his new born but he knew he mustn't. He stood, bouncing on the balls of his feet, with agitation, for what seemed an age but was only a matter of seconds. The baby was still howling when, at last, the theatre sister was there at his side, holding the screaming bundle in her hands. She plonked the baby on Mary's chest, making skin to skin contact and announced.

'Congratulations! You have a beautiful baby girl!'

ooOoo

**Many, many thanks to all my readers, followers and favouriters and, most especially, to my reviewers. Your words of encouragement mean more then you could ever know!**

**I must give a special thanks to the inspiration for Mary's birth story. I trawled the 'birth story' sites, looking for the most horrendous example I could find. And then shamelessly copied/adapted/grafted it on to John and Mary's story. If that lady should ever read this, I'm sure she will recognise herself. I hope she doesn't mind! And I am pleased to confirm that her outcome was, also, a happy one - a beautiful, healthy baby!**


	35. Chapter 34

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Thirty Four**

Molly was worried. She had been trying to contact John all day but his phone kept going straight to Voice Mail. This could only mean two things. Either his phone was switched off or his battery had run out. Either scenario led to the same conclusion. He must be at the hospital. But it had been a day and a half since he had texted Sherlock to say Mary was in labour. Surely she could not possibly be, still? It was three in the afternoon! Molly sat in the staff lounge, sipping a glass of water and trying to think of a good reason why John would not have called, when her phone rang, with John's ring tone. She snatched it up and answered,

'John! Oh, thank goodness! Is everything alright?'

'It is now,' he answered, sounding incredibly tired and rather emotional. 'Mary's had the baby, both absolutely fine, in the end, although Mary is pretty exhausted. Baby was born at one forty-five, or thereabouts, by emergency C-section. But they're both absolutely fine. So, I'm just ringing everyone, to let them know that everything is fine and I saw a load of missed calls from you, so I thought I'd ring you first. So…..yeah,' he stuttered to a halt, like an engine running down, as it ran out of petrol.

'That is absolutely wonderful, John, really wonderful. Congratulations! And the baby?' Molly prompted.

'Fine, fine, absolutely fine. Came out screaming the place down. Probably could be heard for miles.'

Molly had to smile at John's inane ramblings. He was clearly overcome with tiredness, elation, relief and a thousand other emotions. She thought she had better make it a bit easier for him.

'Boy or girl, John? Which is it?'

'Oh, God, yes, of course, yes! A girl, Molly, a little girl, Lily Rose – after the two grandmothers – mine and Mary's, of course. I mean mine and Mary's mothers, not grandmothers. Her grandmothers, Lily Rose's.' He stuttered to a stop again. Molly could barely stop herself from giggling.

'What a beautiful name for a beautiful baby,' she said, with heartfelt delight.

'Oh, she is beautiful, Moll. She looks just like Mary – thank goodness. God help the child if she looked like me, hey?' he replied.

'So are you going home, now, John? You sound as though you could do with some sleep,' Molly advised him.

'Yes, I'm going to go home, get some sleep, have a shower, that sort of thing, you know, and then I'll be back at the hospital this evening. I have to ring the in-laws, let them know, and Harry, of course, let her know she's an auntie. Then I'm going to bed.'

'That sounds like a good idea to me,' Molly agreed. 'We won't come tonight, John. You'll want some time on your own, the three of you, and I expect the new grandparents will want a private view, too. We'll come tomorrow evening, is that OK?'

'That is perfect, Molly. I'll tell Mary to expect you then. I don't suppose Sherlock will come. I can't imagine him seeing the point.'

'Oh, he'll come, John. He will definitely come. I want to see him with a new baby, just to see if he's safe to let loose on ours, when it arrives!' Molly joked.

'Oh, thanks! Let him experiment on our baby, first. Lily Rose, the test pilot, is it? Or Lily Rose, the lab rat?' They both laughed and said goodbye, then shut off the call.

Molly sat back in her seat. That had been a very long labour, she thought. No doubt she would hear the full story in due course but she really felt for poor Mary, having to go through all that, especially with her first baby. She must have been terrified. She thought about ringing Sherlock to tell him the news but she decided to wait and tell him when she got home.

ooOoo

Mycroft sat in the Cabinet Room, at No 10 Downing Street, listening to the various members of that esteemed body discussing the results of the audit his department had just completed, on all the members of the Houses of Parliament, both Commons and Lords, and on every member of the Civil Service. It had been a long, arduous and complex task and he had been obliged to oversee the whole thing. This course of action had been set in motion by the revelation that Joan Manning – Mycroft flatly refused to call her by her title of Dame, on principle – former Director General of MI5 had been a Soviet spy and then a Russian spy for her entire career as a public servant, despite under-going various screenings, over the years. And she had named a number of other persons, of similar high rank to herself, who had also been spies for one or another foreign power. It had been necessary, therefore, to conduct some very in-depth investigations into a huge number of individuals. It had taken the best part of five months and had completely taken over Mycroft's life, with barely an hour to spare for himself, let alone a day. He felt he was due a holiday.

The last time he said he was taking a holiday, he had been accused of selling government secrets by the very person who actually was selling – or rather giving away – government secrets. Well, she was now put out to grass, by a deal he had been forced to put to some of the very persons who were discussing his report, now. Mycroft rubbed his face, with both hands. He was bored with this subject, now. He had lived and breathed it for almost half a year and he had no desire to hear another word said on the subject. However, as a good public servant, he sat in the room where all the major decisions concerning Government policy were made – or, at least, ratified – and he tried to look interested. Thank goodness, the meeting seemed to be coming to an end. The final opinion had been expressed and all that was left was for him to receive the fatuous appreciation of this disparate group of….

'And, so, it is with deepest gratitude that I wish to extend all our thanks to you, Mr Holmes.' Mycroft was jolted out of his musing by the voice of the PM, proposing a vote of thanks, to which all twenty-two members of the Cabinet heartily agreed, with a resounding round of 'Here, here's' Mycroft rose, nodded, gave an ingratiating smile, and left the room.

He walked the short distance from Downing Street to his own office in Whitehall, accompanied, as ever, by Anthea, his PA and his driver, both of whom held an additional responsibility, for his personal protection. As he strolled along, enjoying the late afternoon sunshine, he thought of his future plans. He was feeling jaded and not a little disillusioned with the Establishment, following the decision to grant the traitor and master spy immunity from prosecution for attempting to kill his brother. He needed a break, to consider his position and recharge his batteries. He had already informed the DG of MI5 that he would spend a month, putting his own department in order but would then be taking some extended leave.

He had made this announcement now, to allow his new superior a little time to decide whether to promote Mycroft's current deputy to Acting Head of Department, during his absence, or to find someone whom they thought might fit the role better. Mycroft had no preference as to which option the man chose. He had a degree of respect for his current second in command but he also knew that she had not enjoyed being 'the boss' for the two short periods of time when that role had been forced upon her. Mycroft suspected that she was considering a sideways move to another department, where decisions did not have quite so much riding upon them. This would leave the way clear for a new, more dynamic, more proactive person to be taken on, to be his deputy. Mycroft would, of course, have some say in the selection process. He was quite looking forward to that. Anyone who could stand up to his in-depth interviewing techniques would be the right man or woman for the job.

ooOoo

Molly, Sherlock and William got out of the cab, outside the Maternity Unit at St Thomas's Hospital and Sherlock paid the fare. Then they entered the building and followed the signs to the Mother and Baby Unit. As they stood in the lift, Molly said,

'Now, you know what to do, don't you?'

Sherlock looked at her, with a puzzled expression, for a moment, then said,

'What do you mean, 'what to do'? What to do, when?'

'When we get there, when we go in to see them and the baby,' Molly replied.

'Well, I didn't realize there was any particular protocol to follow. But, it would appear I was wrong,' Sherlock muttered.

'Look, you just have to shake John's hand, give Mary a kiss and say something nice about the baby, that's all,' Molly instructed him.

'What do you mean, say something nice about the baby? It's a baby. What is there to say? 'Oh, hi, there, baby. I love your work. I'm your biggest fan.' Will that do?' Sherlock replied, with a huff.

'Now you're just being childish,' Molly chided him. 'OK, you don't necessarily have to say anything nice but just don't say anything not nice,' she amended.

'Like what?' he asked, regretting ever agreeing to come and see this damn baby, even if it was his best friend's first born.

'Like, 'That baby's cranial circumference is within the third percentile. Is there any history of hydrocephaly in either of your families?' Like that,' Molly concluded.

'Does it have a big head?' Sherlock asked, his interest suddenly piqued.

'No, it doesn't and it's not an 'it', it's a 'she' and she has a name – Lily Rose,' Molly hissed, as the lift halted and the doors opened.

'I'll just let you do the talking,' Sherlock decided and led the way, down the corridor, towards the main desk, holding William's hand and wondering why anyone cared what other people thought of their children, so long as they liked them, themselves.

They were pointed in the direction of Mary's room and walked the short distance to it. Molly knocked on the door and entered when John called 'Come in!'

John was sitting in the bedside chair, holding his daughter in his arms. She was sound asleep. Mary was sitting semi-upright, in the bed, reclining on her pillows, still looking the worse for wear, even this long after the delivery. Molly went to her first and gave her a big hug and a kiss on the cheek.

'You poor thing!' she smiled, sympathetically. 'You must tell me all about it, when you feel up to it.' She then turned to John and gave him a hug and a kiss, too, placing a card and a small gift-wrapped parcel on the bedside cabinet.

'Congratulations, both of you,' she beamed. 'I hope you don't mind us bringing William. He is really interested in babies, at the moment, so we brought him along, too.' William was standing next to Sherlock, gazing in quiet awe at the small person, wrapped in a cellular blanket, nestling in Uncle John's arms.

Molly gave Sherlock a sidelong glance and a small cough. That was his cue, he gathered. He stepped forward, gave Mary a swift peck on each cheek, smiled and said,

'Congratulations. Well done. How very clever of you,' then moved on to his friend, who extended a hand to be shaken and gave a wry smile as he waited to see how the consulting detective would deal with this new situation – the greeting of the friend's new baby. Sherlock stood, drawn up to his full height, hands behind his back, studying the infant for a moment or two, clearly mulling over what might be acceptable as a comment, then said,

'She may have Mary's zygomatic bone but she has your supraorbital arch, John.'

'Really?' John replied. 'Well, that's reassuring. At least it proves she's mine. Won't need to bother about the paternity test.' Molly, Mary and John dissolved into fits of giggles. Sherlock looked at them all with disdain and turned to William.

'What do you think, William?' he asked.

'It's very small. And it smells funny,' William pronounced, eyeing the baby, a little warily.

'You were that small, once. You've seen the photos,' Sherlock reminded him. 'But they do grow quite fast.'

'I think I'll like it better when it's bigger,' William concluded. 'And not so smelly.'

Molly looked at Mary and John and shook her head, in mock dismay. William was so his father's son.

ooOoo


	36. Chapter 35

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Thirty Five**

Sherlock drew his hands, slowly and smoothly, down either side of the swollen dome of her belly, following the contours of the bulge, from just below her breasts to just above the pubic bone, then down her thighs, to the knees, and back up and round, his hands moving in orbit about her protruding belly button. He then slipped his fingers under her enlarged breasts and stroked up and around the dark pink areoles, increased in size almost to the proportion of the palms of his hands, before moving up to her clavicles, across her shoulders and down her upper arms. Pausing to apply more oil to his left palm, he pressed his hands together, to warm the oil and spread it evenly over both palms, and began the whole process again.

Molly lay back on the pillow, noting, with a small smile, the intense concentration on his face as he performed the ritual of her bio oil massage, for the purpose of warding off stretch marks. He absolutely insisted that he do it, every day. In fact, he would have massaged her morning, noon and night, if she would have let him. He well understood why pre-historic artisans carved totemic images, in stone, of pregnant women and worshiped them as iconic representations of fertility. He adored her fecund body. He thought she had never looked more beautiful.

As he moved his hands in unison, applying the oil evenly to her skin, he thought back to that first night, following his discharge from hospital. Molly had asked him to perform the massage and he had obliged but his hands had felt large and clumsy, like bunches of bananas. He remembered how Molly had placed her hand over his, and guided him through the sequence of movements, as he had always performed it, since that very first time, after The Argument. As she moved his hand over her body, he had seen the light of desire come into her eyes. She wanted him and he wanted her but he was unsure. His body was not his own. He couldn't command it. It seemed to have a mind of its own, which he could not predict. He took a breath and parted his lips, to apologise for his inadequacy, but she placed a finger on those lips, to stop the utterance. Then she pushed his shoulder and rolled him over, gently, onto his back and she made love to him. Caressing his skin with her hands, lips and tongue, she calmed his fears, enslaved his soul and commanded his body. And when the time was right, she straddled his hips and transported them both to the realms of ecstasy. Later, when they both lay breathless, her arm across his chest and her head on his shoulder, he whispered to her,

'You thought of everything,' to which she replied,

'No, I just thought of you and the rest just happened.'

ooOoo

Molly felt fat. She felt ungainly and cumbersome. She had not enjoyed this second pregnancy anywhere near as much as she had her first. In truth, the actual experience had been much the same but, this time around, she had William to care for, a bigger home to keep, and then, there was Sherlock. He was attentive to the point of being quite annoying, constantly asking if there were anything she needed, anything he could get her, anything he could do, until she finally snapped and said,

'Yes, Sherlock, you can leave me alone!'

But he had looked so hurt that she immediately retracted the statement and asked him to bring her a glass of milk. She knew she should be grateful but instead, she was impatient and irritable, short-tempered and petulant, in fact, completely not herself. It was the nagging feeling that, to him, it was just another experiment. But then, that was the person he was wasn't it?

She lay on the sofa, in the sitting room, with the windows open and a fan on the coffee table, blowing full blast, but she was still too hot. Having all that extra blood coursing through one's veins had serious disadvantages when it came to temperature control. She thought about running a cool bath and laying in that, but that would mean getting up from the sofa and, right now, that demanded far more effort than she was prepared to give. She would have to get up soon enough because her bladder was about the size of a golf ball, or so it seemed, so trips to the bathroom were frequent in deed. She was just two days short of her due date and she felt she had been pregnant long enough. Her pregnancy with William may have seemed so much more enjoyable but she knew that was just the rose-tinted glasses talking. If she was honest with herself, the biggest difference was that she had been on her own and she had decided not to give voice to negative thoughts or complain about anything, so as not to give anyone the opportunity to say 'Well, you only have yourself to blame. Nobody made you get pregnant.'

She was angry with herself, right now, because she had been horrible to Sherlock. She had snapped at him, when he was only trying to help and she had pushed him away, last night, when all he wanted to do was give her a hug. Most women would have been thrilled at the amount of attention he lavished on her. And, especially under the circumstances, she should have been grateful that he was even able to do as much as he did. After the attack with the neurotoxin, he had worked so hard to get back the motor skills he had lost and she knew he had done that with one goal in mind – to be there at the birth and to hold their new born child in his hands. She knew better than anyone how hard the rehab had been, how frustrated he had felt, how angry with himself when things took longer to get back than he thought they should. He had refused Mycroft's offer of a home care assistant and, also, any adaptations to the flat. He didn't want to become dependent on anyone or anything, and, most especially, on her. In those early days, when she tried to do things for him, he had told her no. He was determined not to be a burden. The only help he accepted was that of Mycroft's chauffeur, to take him to and from his therapy appointments, in the beginning, when he still needed to walk with a stick. Once he dispensed with the stick, he dispensed with the driver, too.

This baby wasn't just another experiment to Sherlock, she knew that. He was emotionally attached to the foetus, already. She could still see, in her mind's eye, the look of awe and wonder on his face, the first time he felt the child move, under his hand. He loved to lie with his head in her lap, his ear pressed to her abdomen, listening to the baby's heartbeat, talking to it, stroking the bump. He had read all her baby books and all the child development papers she had downloaded onto her laptop, when she was pregnant with William – although he did have a tendency to point out every instance of one source contradicting another.

To be fair to herself, she knew why she had been getting so ratty, lately. It was the hormones, again. She was in 'the bossy phase' of the gestation period. She remembered it well from last time, over what turned out to be the last few days of her first pregnancy. She had become a positive harridan, at work. She had snapped at the slightest provocation. No one had escaped the sharp edge of her tongue. Had it not been so out of character, she might even have found herself up on a disciplinary for unprofessional behaviour. Instead, her boss had taken her to one side and advised her that her blood sugar might be a little low and that she should nibble an energy bar, or something. She had taken that advice, then. She needed to apply it now. Sherlock had taken William out for the day, for his Saturday treat. When they got back, she would apologise to him for being such a cow. He did not deserve that.

Molly needed to go to the toilet, so she rolled over and pushed herself up to sitting and then to standing. The foetus responded to her change of orientation by extending a leg, slowly and languorously, upwards, just below her ribcage.

'Not long now, baby. I know it's getting a bit cramped in there,' she soothed, stroking her belly, as she waddled off to the bathroom.

ooOoo

William could not quite understand why Mummy had eaten the new baby, but just hoped that he was not to be next on the menu. He wasn't too concerned about that possibility, since he had already surmised that Mummy must have eaten the baby when it was really small – even smaller than Lily Rose – as she would have had to swallow the baby whole. He thought she probably ate the baby so that it could eat all the food in her tummy and grow big. That seemed to have worked because Mummy's tummy was really big now and she said it was all because of the baby. Daddy talked to the baby through Mummy's tummy. William had tried doing that, too, but the baby didn't answer him so he gave up.

He had been doing quite a lot of research. TV nature programmes had been a valuable source of data. On the Serengeti Plains of Africa, the wildebeest had been busy making babies. He had worked out that their babies were made of grass. They ate the grass and then poohed out the babies. On Springwatch, he had seen the sheep poohing their babies, too. But birds didn't do that. Their babies came in eggs. He was quite glad about that because he liked eggs and he didn't think he would like eating something that had been poohed by a chicken. William was really enjoying his research project. It was rather fun!

ooOoo

Helen had been an independent midwife for fifteen years and during that time had presided over scores of home births. She had gotten close to all those mothers, all those couples, all those families but she had a particularly soft spot for this family. When she first met the mum, her partner was in hospital, seriously ill, after an attack that seemed to have come straight out of a James Bond movie. He was hospitalised for a long time and, when he came home, he had a marked physical disability. With a lively three year old to care for, as well, Helen wondered how this young mum would cope. She was pleasantly surprised to find that her fears were unfounded.

On each of her monthly home visits, she got to know them a bit better and saw the close bond that held this little family together. He was a bit of an odd character. At first, he came across as being aloof and taciturn. He listened to everything she said but she wasn't sure how much he actually agreed with her advice or opinions. His speech had been affected by the attack, so she assumed he might be reluctant to speak in front of her – a relative stranger. But she admired the fierce determination of the young man to retain his independence and regain the skills he'd lost. She was confident he would be a very supportive birth partner for the mum, on an emotional level. She wasn't so sure how much he would be able to do, practically.

The child was a funny little thing. He was a bit of a thinker. She got the feeling that he was taking everything in but what he was making of it all, she really couldn't say. They had discussed whether he should be allowed to be present at the birth, and Helen had suggested that he could be around but there should be someone with him who could gauge his reactions and take him out of the room, if he became overwhelmed by the whole procedure. Mum had suggested a lady they all referred to as 'Mrs Hudson', although her role in the family was that of 'Granny'. Helen wasn't sure who this lady was or how she was connected to the family but she had met her, a couple of times, and she was clearly very close to them all, but especially to Dad. She wondered whether she had been his foster mother but they seemed to belong to very different social strata. Anyway, it had been agreed that Mrs H would be at the birth and would look after little William, but with the condition that, since William was a little boy who thrived on routine, he wouldn't be kept up late especially to witness the birth. They seemed to think that missing his bedtime would be more traumatic for the little chap than watching the birth of his sibling. Having met him, she tended to agree with them.

Mum was very close to her due date so Helen was on stand-by. Baby could come along any day now. She had delivered the 'birthing pack', which consisted of, amongst other things, the birthing pool, which came with its own electric pump, to blow it up, and thermostat, to help maintain a consistent temperature of 37.5 degrees C. She had toured the flat, on her first visit, to decide where the best place would be for the birthing pool. The choice was fairly obvious. There was enough space in the master bedroom to accommodate the pool and there was a nearby source of water – the en suite bathroom. It was a comfortable room, in which the couple would feel relaxed and at home. They could create their own ideal environment for the birth of their baby. Helen looked forward to all her births but she was particularly looking forward to this one.

ooOoo


	37. Chapter 36

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Thirty Six**

Sherlock rolled carefully out of bed, so as not to disturb Molly. She had started her Maternity Leave and had no reason to be up and about this early. He wanted her to enjoy her lie in. Pulling on his dressing gown, he walked quietly from the room and down the corridor, to use William's bathroom. He had left his clothes in there the night before, so that he could shower and dress before getting William up for school.

Having dropped William off, he returned to the flat, to find Molly sitting at the kitchen table, sipping a glass of milk.

'Oh, you're up,' he said, a little disappointed, 'I was going to bring you breakfast in bed.'

'That's a lovely thought, darling, but toast crumbs in the bed are not my favourite thing. Anyway, I'm still in work mode, so I couldn't stay in bed a minute longer.' As she spoke, Molly arched her spine and rubbed her lower back.

'Are you alright?' Sherlock asked.

'Yes, I'm fine,' she replied, 'but I think I might be in the early stage of labour.'

His eyes widened and his mouth formed a silent 'O'.

'This is how it started last time, with lower back pain, but I didn't recognise it for what it was. But this feels very familiar and I have been having a lot of Braxton Hicks, too, so I'm pretty sure things are just revving up.' She smiled at his expression, which did have a touch of 'rabbit in the headlights' about it.

'It's OK, you know. I've done this before. I think I can remember how to do it again!' she joked. He gave a small, embarrassed laugh and shook his head at his own trepidation.

'So what do we do now?' he asked.

'Just carry on as normal, for the time being. It's going to be a few hours, yet.' Molly was aware that second and subsequent babies had a habit of coming faster than the first but until she had more tangible evidence that she was in labour, she knew there was no need to do anything.

'So, what would you like for breakfast?' he asked, trying to ignore the increase in his own heart rate that her revelation had brought about. He marvelled at how calm she was, how in control of the situation. He remembered thinking the same thing when he watched the video of William's birth. She really was a remarkable woman and, remarkably, she was his woman!

'Peanut butter on toast, please. I need to keep up my energy levels.'

'We should probably ring Mrs Hudson and tell her to make her way over here,' he suggested. 'She might have something planned, otherwise.'

'OK, you can ring her but tell her there's no rush.' Molly could see the slight tremor in Sherlock's hands, as he put the bread in the toaster. He was trying to hide it, but he was clearly nervous and more than a little apprehensive. She thought Mrs Hudson would be a calming influence on him. It was going to be a long day and she didn't want him to peak too soon.

ooOoo

Having called Mrs Hudson, it was clear that Sherlock needed employment. Being unoccupied was not a good condition for him, at the best of times, so most definitely not now. Molly suggested they set up the birthing pool. Even if it turned out she wasn't in labour, after all, it would be a useful 'dry run' for the pool – if that wasn't an oxymoron.

They had discussed how they wanted the birthing area to be arranged. Some people, Helen had told them, had candles and whale music, others created a little bower, with fairy lights and drapes. Neither of those options appealed to the Hooper-Holmes team. Molly wanted a clutter-free environment, where she could wander about, as the mood took her. The bedside lamps, plus the floor lamp from the sitting room, would suffice as mood lighting. As for music, she didn't want any. The labour would last several hours and she could imagine any piece of music, even her most favourite, grating after that length of time.

'Maybe you could play for me,' she had suggested to Sherlock. 'You could vary the music accordingly, like they do in supermarkets and railway stations.

'Oh, right, so – when you need to push really hard, I could play the Anvil Chorus, that sort of thing?' he offered, expanding on the theme.

'Exactly! And when things get really hectic, you could play 'The Flight of the Bumblebee!'

There would be no music, then.

To set up the pool, they started by laying out the large tarpaulin, on the carpet, then pulled the collapsed pool out of its bag, attached the electric air pump and set it to begin inflating. Sherlock decided to have a rummage through the contents of the pool pack and came out with what looked like a plastic sieve. He turned it over in his hands, then asked,

'What's this for?'

Molly giggled and said,

'Have a guess.' He was just about to say 'I never guess' when she revised her question to 'Deduce its purpose.'

Sherlock sat back on his heels and looked at the object again.

'Well, it's clearly intended as a scoop, so it's to scoop something out of the water.'

'Good,' she encouraged him.

He sat, puzzling over what might need to be scooped out of the water, then the truth dawned.

'Oh,' he said. Molly laughed at the look on his face.

'Oh, yes,' she said. 'Well, just think about it. When you're doing all that pushing, the baby isn't the only thing that might pop out. You can't just leave it floating around in the water, can you?'

'Thanks for that,' Sherlock said, with heavy irony. 'That image is seared into my brain, now.'

Molly collapsed in another fit of giggles.

'That can be your job, then, Head Pooper Scooper!'

Even he couldn't keep a straight face after that remark and they both fell about, laughing.

Once they regained control of themselves, he checked out the rest of the pack. It consisted of a liner, for the pool, a food-grade hose, to fill and empty the pool, a tap connector, a cover, to keep the heat in, an electric water pump, to empty the pool afterwards, a puncture repair kit – which they both hoped would not be required – and a digital thermometer. There was also a large, white plastic, semi-circular object, about which he just had no clue. No doubt, he would find out what that was for, eventually. He put them all back in the bag, to keep clean and safe, until they were needed.

Next, they stripped the bed and laid a waterproof sheet over the mattress, then remade the bed over it. They had been advised to have as many towels available as they could muster, so they had bought half a dozen big bath sheets and a dozen hand towels, which would all come in useful after the event, if they survived, and could be disposed of, if they didn't.

Sherlock had a rummage through the birthing pack. There were quite a few items of whose purpose he wasn't sure - a torch, a folding mirror on a stick, a pack of what looked like large disposable diapers. He didn't even want to speculate as to their use. He closed the pack up and put it next to the chest of drawers, so for future use.

The air pump had made short work of inflating the pool. Sherlock disconnected it and sealed the inlet with the bung. If it was intact, the pool should not lose any pressure. He hoped that would be the case, since trying to find a puncture in such a large inflatable might prove difficult. He put the pump back in the pack and hoped it would not be needed again until it was time to deflate the pool, when it was all over and done with.

Satisfied with the layout of the room, he and Molly came out and shut the door.

'Everything alright?' Sherlock enquired, as Molly lowered herself onto the sofa.

'Just more of the same. I'm having another Braxton Hicks. Do you want to feel it?' she asked him. He nodded, so she took his hand and placed it on her bump. It felt really firm and unrelenting.

'God, that's really hard. Poor baby's getting a good squeeze,' Sherlock marvelled.

'Yes, it's gone really quiet, no kicking today. Its head is right down here,' she explained, indicating her pelvis. 'That's why I have to go for a pee so often. It's pressing right on my bladder! Its bottom is here,' she indicated the right side of her belly, up under her rib cage, 'and its feet are here.' She indicated the left side of her belly, under her ribs. Sherlock placed his hand in the positions she showed him, and pictured the baby, upside down and curled up in a ball. He leaned over and pressed his ear to her belly. He could hear the baby's heart beating rapidly and he smiled to think that soon he would meet this little creature, face to face.

ooOoo

Mrs Hudson arrived, by cab, around lunch time. Sherlock went out to meet her and pay the cabbie.

'Did you bring it?' he asked, after he opened the cab door to help her out onto the pavement.

'Yes, it's here!' she replied, and showed him the Moses basket, on the seat beside her. Molly hadn't kept any of William's baby things but she had bought a second hand cot, from a charity shop, and that was stored in the guest bedroom. Sherlock, with his landlady acting as his personal shopper, had bought the Moses basket and layette, a month earlier, and kept it all at Baker Street, so it would be a surprise for Molly. Mrs H passed the basket and all its contents to him and, taking his hand, stepped out of the cab. Sherlock hefted her hand luggage and walked back into the building. He stowed the surprise in the hall cupboard, for later.

Walking into the sitting room, Mrs Hudson bent to give Molly a hug.

'Shall I put the kettle on?' she asked.

'No, you sit down, Mrs H. I'll make the tea,' Sherlock insisted and went off into the kitchen. Molly and the visitor smiled at one another.

'Some sandwiches would be nice,' Molly called after him, stifling a chuckle.

'Mrs Hudson?' he called back.

'Yes, dear, that would be lovely,' she replied, and sniggered into her hand.

'He needs to keep occupied,' Molly explained. 'It stops him thinking too much. And, I'm making the most of this, while it lasts. Once this baby's born, he'll probably delete all these domestic skills from his hard drive!'

Then, she said, 'I hope I haven't brought you here on a fool's errand. It could still be a false alarm.'

'It's always a pleasure to spend time with you and yours, my dear,' her guest replied. 'Is William at school?'

The women chatted happily, whilst Sherlock made the tea and sandwiches.

ooOoo

After lunch, Molly went to the bedroom for a lie down. She had taken to having an afternoon nap, since she stopped working. She lay down on the bed and closed her eyes, trying to relax but she doubted she would sleep. She was feeling far too restless. This, to her, was another indication that she was in labour. She remembered feeling energised, the last time. After tossing and turning for half an hour, she rolled off the bed and went into the bathroom. Her tiny bladder was full again. Sitting on the loo, she glanced down and saw the tell-tale sign on the gusset of her pants. The plug of mucus, that had sealed her cervix for the last nine months, had come away. This could only mean one thing – her cervix was dilating. She definitely was in labour.

Back in the bedroom, she picked up her mobile and called the midwife.

'Hello, Molly. How are things?' Helen greeted her. Molly explained the situation.

'Ok, well, yes, you are most definitely in the early stage of labour and it sounds as though you have everything under control. Is the pool up and running?' she asked.

'It's inflated but there's no water in it, yet,' Molly replied.

'Well, you could start filling it, now. It takes a while. Don't over-fill it, though. We will probably need to top it up with more hot water, from time to time. Once it's about eight inches deep, put the cover on. That will retain the heat. Oh, and don't forget to put the liner in. It improves the heat retention.'

Molly acknowledged all the instructions. That would keep Sherlock busy.

'I don't think you need me just yet so I won't come out. If everything is going smoothly and you are happy with the situation, I'm going to leave you to it, for now. Ring me again when the contractions are ten minutes apart. I can be with you within twenty minutes.'

Molly assured her that she was more than happy to go it alone, for the time being, so Helen said goodbye and good luck. Molly closed down the call and looked at her reflection in the bedroom mirror.

'This is it, Molly Hooper. Ain't no stopping it now!' she said, with a affirming nod.

She went through to the sitting room and leaned on the back of the sofa, smiling at Sherlock. He gave her a quizzical look.

'Game on!' she announced. 'Would you like to fill the pool?'

ooOoo

**Not quite there yet, all you baby watchers! But nearly!**


	38. Chapter 37

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Scroll down slowly!**

**Chapter Thirty Seven**

Sherlock walked into the bedroom and closed the door. He crossed over to the birthing pool, reached inside the pack and took out the hose and the tap attachment. Fitting the attachment to the hose, he dropped the loose end of the hose into the pool then went into the bathroom, uncoiling the hose, as he went, and fastened the attachment to the hot tap of the bath. He was about to turn on the tap on when he remembered the liner. Oh, good lord, he thought to himself, get your act together, Holmes! He needed to calm down. Molly was having the baby and she was calm. Just chill. He went back into the bedroom and placed the liner in the pool, then put the end of the hose back in and secured it in place. Then he turned on the tap. The water began to trickle into the pool.

He needed to change his clothes. He wouldn't be much use, as a birthing partner, in a tailored shirt and a designer suit. He stripped off down to his boxers, hung up his suit and threw the shirt and socks into the laundry basket. He dressed in a clean t-shirt and pj bottoms. He felt more relaxed, then. He started to unpack the birthing pack, placing all the items on top of the chest of drawers, so they would be accessible, when needed. Having done that, he sat on the bed and ran his fingers through his hair. It was three o'clock in the afternoon. It was the waiting that was killing him. He didn't do waiting very well.

In the sitting room, Molly was beginning to pace. The contractions were still not painful but they were quite regular, about thirty minutes apart. She found that sitting still gave her cramp so she chose to pace. It was nice being in her own space. She could wander into the kitchen and get a bottle of water from the fridge, she had the TV on, not really to watch it but as a distraction. At one point, she went out into the garden and had a walk around out there. And, in between the contractions, she could sit or lie on the sofa or on the floor or anywhere she felt like. It was very empowering.

At quarter to four, William arrived home, with Marie, and was delighted to find Mrs Hudson was there. Molly explained to him that the baby was coming but wouldn't be here for quite some time, so he took up his usual position on the sofa and switched to CBBC. Marie and Mrs Hudson went off to the kitchen, to start preparing supper and to make yet another pot of tea. Molly wandered into the bedroom, where Sherlock was still supervising the filling of the pool. The water was about four inches deep, now, and he had put the cover on, to keep the heat in. The cover floated on the surface of the water and rose as the water level did.

Molly came over to him and put her arms round his waist, resting her head against his chest. He draped his arms around her.

'You will tell me what you need me to do, won't you?' he said. 'I don't want to just stand there, like a spare part. I want to be useful.'

'I know you do, babe. And you will be, trust me. Last time, when I had William, I was all on my own. OK, I had Maria but she was there to make the video. She didn't help with the birth at all. I was in a strange place with a bunch of people I'd never met before. And the thing that really helped me was the thought that I was doing it for you. I thought about you the whole time. I could hear your voice in my head. I don't have to imagine you, this time. You're here, for real and we're doing this together.' She looked up at him and he bent his head and kissed her.

'Hmmmm, kissing therapy. That's better than whale music, any day,' she murmured. She moved away from him and lay down on the bed, on her side.

'Will you rub my back, please?' she said, closing her eyes. He sat in front of her, on the bed, and began to rub her lower back with one hand, placing his other hand under her head, stroking her cheek with his thumb. She rested her arm against his thigh and ran her hand up and down his leg.

'Oh, that is so lovely,' she breathed. 'Do you know what I'm hearing in my head?'

'No, you tell me,' he replied, softly.

'Bach's Double Violin Concerto, the second movement, the Largo. It's so beautiful. I could just float away.'

'Shall I go and get William? We could play it for you, live,' he whispered. Then they both started to giggle at the thought of William playing that particular piece. As the giggles subsided and the music filled her head again, he leaned forward and kissed her neck, tasting the salty tang of perspiration. She sighed, deeply, then said,

'I'm going to have to get up. I need to pee.'

He sat upright and then slid off the bed and offered his hand, which she took and pushed herself up onto her feet. She reached up and kissed him again, then tottered off to the bathroom, feeling slightly euphoric. He watched her go, feeling rather light-headed, himself.

ooOoo

At five thirty, Marie tapped lightly on the bedroom door and popped her head in to say she was going and to wish them luck. Molly was on the bed, taking a nap, and Sherlock was just sitting on the floor, watching her sleep. The pool had filled up to the required level and was ready for action. Sherlock got up from the floor and came out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him. He thanked Marie for her good wishes and saw her to the front door, then went over to sit next to William, on the sofa. William climbed into his lap and nestled into his chest, never taking his eyes off the TV show about dolphins.

'Has Mummy had the baby yet?' he asked.

'No, not yet. She's just resting,' Sherlock answered. William turned sharply, to look at him.

'She's not being sick again, is she?'

'No, she's just sleeping,' Sherlock replied, giving him a comforting hug. William relaxed again and turned back to the TV.

'That dolphin had a baby,' he informed his father. 'It poohed it out and it swam straight away.'

Sherlock wondered if he had heard correctly.

'What did you say, William?'

'The mummy dolphin poohed the baby dolphin out and the baby dolphin swam straight up to the top of the water. Will our baby be able to swim, straight away?'

Sherlock was just wondering how he was going to explain that babies were not exactly poohed out by the mother, even though it did sort of look like that, but he diverted to the swimming issue, that being the easier option.

'Actually, human babies can't swim when they are born but they can seem as though they can. They have a dive reflex, that makes them automatically hold their breath under water and they have another reflex that moves their arms and legs, if they're put face down in water, so it looks as though they're swimming. But they can't swim up to the surface, like a dolphin can.'

William nodded his head, adding this information to his bank of data.

'Babies like being in water, though. They are floating in water all the time they're inside their mothers, so water is their natural element. That's one reason why Mummy is having a water birth, so the baby doesn't get such a shock when it's born. It will be born into the water and it won't breathe until it's lifted out.'

'Is Mummy having the baby in the bath?' William asked. Sherlock explained about the birthing pool and said he would show it to William when Mummy was awake. William was intrigued with the idea of seeing the pool but he was happy to wait until Mummy woke up.

ooOoo

At six thirty, Mrs Hudson announced that supper was ready. Sherlock went into the bedroom to see if Molly wanted to eat. She woke up as he came into the room and sat up, rubbing her eyes.

'I'm not hungry, actually. You go ahead and eat, though. Ask Mrs H to put me something on a plate. I might want it later.'

He didn't ask her how things were, he figured she would tell him anything worth telling.

'I'm going to get changed into my birthing outfit,' she announced, and gave a goofy grin. She had started to refer to her 'birthing outfit' when the midwife had asked her what she proposed to wear whilst she was in labour. Obviously, in hospital, she would wear a hospital gown but, at home, she could wear what she liked. She had decided on a crop t-shirt and a sarong, tied above her bump, as this would preserve her modesty but would not impede access and could be easily discarded when she decided to get into the pool. She was going to put her hair into a pony tail and loop it through the bobble, to keep it out of the water and out of the way. She climbed off the bed and went into the bathroom to put that plan into action.

When she came into the sitting room, the rest of the family were eating supper, round the kitchen table. While she'd been asleep, the contractions had become stronger and more frequent but they were still only moderately painful. She leaned on the back of the sofa and breathed through the latest one.

'Why are you doing that?' William asked.

'My tummy is trying to squeeze the baby out so it gets really hard and it hurts a bit, but if I lean on the sofa and breathe really slowly, it doesn't hurt as much.' As the contraction eased, she walked into the kitchen and got another bottle of water from the fridge. She was pleased to see there were plenty more in there. She might well get through them all, tonight.

Meal over, Sherlock took William to see the birthing pool. He was impressed.

'It's like a swimming pool, in the bedroom!' he exclaimed. Sherlock showed him the air pump and explained how it blew up the pool but then it could be reversed to suck out the air, as well. And he showed him the water pump, that would be used to empty the pool, after the baby had been born. He didn't go into the intricacies of the pooper scooper. He figured there was enough confusion in that area, already. Pool tour over, William said,

'Is it my bath time yet?'

Sherlock confirmed that it was and took him off to his own bathroom. William loved his routines. Sherlock doubted he would be awake for the birth, since it didn't look likely the baby would arrive before bed time. But then the baby might not be born until the morning. What would be, would be. Having bathed his son and read him another chapter of Harry Potter, he kissed him good night and turned out the light. Going back into the sitting room, Molly was pacing again and muttering to herself and to the baby. She turned to him, as he came into the room, looking hot and flushed,

'I think you can call Helen, now. The contractions are every ten minutes.' He picked up his mobile and dialled the number.

ooOoo

True to her word, Helen arrived about twenty minutes later. She took Molly into the bedroom to examine her and found she was five centimetres dilated – half way there. She placed a hand-held foetal monitor against Molly's abdomen and they could hear the baby's heart, strong and regular, speeding up as another contraction began, then slowing down again as it subsided. It was clearly feeling the pressure, too.

'When do you think I should get into the pool?' Molly asked.

'Whenever you feel like it. This is your party. You can do what you like. If it feels right, you do it,' Helen declared.

Molly's waters hadn't broken yet but that was not an issue. Her labour was progressing steadily. If the waters didn't break on their own by the time she was fully dilated, they could be broken then.

Molly went back to pacing, up and down the corridor, in and out of the bedroom, into the sitting room, pausing to lean on whatever was handy, to ride out each contraction. Sherlock stood by the sitting room window, where he could see her wherever she was, apart from in the bedroom, and watched her as she turned in upon herself, completely engrossed in what was going on inside her own body. On more than one occasion, it was him she leaned on, taking hold of his hands and pressing her forehead to his chest, breathing in for one count and out for four counts, as he counted along with her, in his head. In between contractions, she put her arms round his waist and leaned against him, just enjoying the comfort of his presence and the touch of his hands on her skin.

At about nine thirty, Molly went into the bedroom and didn't come out again. Sherlock waited a moment or two, then followed her down the corridor and into the room. She was lying on the bed. He sat on the floor and stroked her head. The contractions were about three minutes apart, now. She was humming, under her breath. He didn't think she even knew he was there but then she said,

'Get me some water, please.'

He picked up a bottle from beside the bed and pulled out the stopper, holding it to her lips and tilting it, so she could drink. When she'd had enough, she pushed his hand away and he withdrew the bottle, putting it back on the floor. She took hold of his hand, briefly, then rolled over onto her knees and elbows, as another contraction began to build.

Helen came in. She had been chatting to Mrs Hudson and then realised that Molly had not reappeared from the bedroom. This change in behaviour indicated to the midwife that Molly might have reached a milestone in the birthing process. She might be in transition. When the contraction eased, she examined Molly again. She was fully dilated.

'I think I might break your waters, Molly, if that's Ok with you,' Helen advised.

Eyes closed, Molly nodded her acquiescence.

'Do you need to have a pee first?' Helen asked.

Molly shook her head.

'OK. You'll need to lie on your back for this.'

Molly rolled over onto her back, with her feet flat on the bed and her knees bent. Helen looked at Sherlock and said,

'You just talk to her while I do this.'

He nodded and knelt down next to the bed, put his hand on Molly's cheek and his lips next to her ear, and whispered so that only she could hear.

This was where the giant diapers came in. Helen spread them out on the bed, under Molly's hips, and used an instrument not dissimilar to a plastic crochet hook to make a small tear in the amniotic sac. The gush of fluid soaked into the diapers but not onto the bed. Helen gathered them all up, along with the latex gloves she'd put on to perform the proceedure and the amniohook and stuffed them into a yellow biohazard bag, to be incinerated, later. She then applied the foetal monitor again. The heart rate was still strong and regular.

With the amniotic sac breached, Molly moved into the active phase of labour. She pushed herself up to sitting and said,

'I need to get in the pool, now.'

Helen went over and lifted the cover off, to check the temperature. It was a little low so she asked Sherlock to put some more hot water in. He went into the bathroom and turned on the tap, then came back into the bedroom to find Molly preparing to get in. She untied and dropped the sarong, then held out her hand to him. He took it and supported her whilst she stepped over the side of the pool, into the water. She lowered herself down onto her knees, still holding his hand, then leaned her forearms on the side of the pool, letting the water support her belly. He knelt down next to the pool and put his arms around her shoulders.

She looked into his eyes and smiled.

'You have no idea how nice this feels,' she breathed. Then, 'I hope you've got your pooper scooper handy.'

He smiled back and replied,

'You poop, I'll scoop,' and they both snorted like a couple of school kids.

Helen checked the temperature again and turned off the tap. Then she assembled the gas and air equipment, in readiness for the next phase of the process.

'Are you going to be in charge of the gas and air,' she asked Sherlock but, before he could answer, Molly said,

'No, I need him for other things. Ask Mrs Hudson if she would be the Entanox monitor, would you, please?.'

When Helen went out to speak to Mrs Hudson, in the sitting room, Molly said to Sherlock,

'You're my kissing monitor. I'd much rather kiss you than Mrs Hudson.'

'That's good to know,' he replied and confirmed his appointment by with a long, slow kiss that sent shivers right through to her core.

ooOoo

Helen had attended many births and every one was unique but this one, she felt, was really special. The bond between these two people was so strong. They communicated almost by osmosis. He seemed to anticipate her every need – reaching for a bottle to give her a drink before she even asked, rubbing her back, with those long, slim fingers, holding her, caressing her and breathing his life force into her. She'd never known a couple kiss so much during labour but they seemed to find so much strength and comfort in this intimate contact. She'd rarely presided over such a quiet labour, either. Molly barely made a sound, just closed her eyes, held onto him and pushed through every contraction. Helen felt virtually redundant. Every fifteen minutes, she checked the baby's heart beat and, from time to time, used the torch and the mirror to check for the baby's head crowning.

As the contractions became really fierce, and Molly needed the gas and air, Sherlock counted her breaths in, slowly, so she gained maximum benefit from the pain relief. She could feel the pressure building in her pelvis. The upright birthing position was so much better than lying down, since gravity could play its part and the warmth and support of the water made it so much easier to relax between contractions. It just felt so right.

Now, Helen was talking. She could hear her saying,

'The baby's head is crowning. With the next contraction, I want you to pant. Remember, Strictly Come Dancing – pant, pant, blow.'

Molly had practiced this in her antenatal classes, imagining herself dancing a Quick Step with Sherlock. And now, here she was, with his arms around her, albeit on opposite sides of the pool side but she put her head on his shoulder and, as the contraction squeezed, she pictured him whirling her around a dance floor – quick, quick, slow; pant, pant, blow – over and over, round and round, until she felt the sudden release of pressure and heard Helen say,

'The head is out. Next contraction, your baby will be born. It should pop up in front of you. Just reach down between your knees and you'll find it.'

Molly lifted her head from Sherlock's shoulder and he from hers and their gazes locked. The contraction surged, she gripped his hands and pushed. And almost with a sigh, she felt the baby slip into the world. She pushed back off the side of the pool, sat back on her heels, reached down between her knees and felt the firm, waxy body of her baby, his baby, their baby. She lifted it out of the water and held it to her chest. Almost as soon as its face cleared the surface of the pool, it took a sharp breath and began to cry.

'What sex is it?' Helen asked, peering over Sherlock's shoulder, giving the baby a quick APGAR check. Molly moved her arm and looked down.

'It's a boy,' she whispered.

She looked up at Sherlock's face. His lips were parted and his eyes were shining with unshed tears. He reached out and put his hand on the baby's head, then lowered his face onto her shoulder and sobbed, uncontrollably.

He felt Mrs Hudson's hand on his shoulder and lifted his head, wiping his face with his free hand. He didn't want to remove his hand from the baby's head but the midwife was asking him if he wanted to cut the cord. He nodded, mutely and she offered him a pair of surgical scissors. Whist he'd been overcome by his emotions, the midwife had clamped the baby's chord in two places and now she was pointing to the space in between, where he needed to cut. His hand was shaking but he took a couple of breaths, consciously relaxed and performed the act of separating the child from the support system that had kept him alive for nine months.

Molly had been watching Sherlock perform this task and, as soon as the cord was cut, she lifted the baby towards him and he took him in his hands, drawing him towards his chest, to hold him in his arms. The midwife laid a towel over the baby and tucked it round his tiny form, so he wouldn't get cold. Sherlock was in a trancelike state, completely mesmerised by the little bundle in his arms. The baby wasn't crying any more but his eyes were wide and he was gazing out at the world, aware of so many new sensations of sight and sound, touch and smell. Sherlock looked into those eyes, which were a dark mixture of brown and green, with long, fair lashes. Sherlock could see Molly in those eyes and in the shape of his face, especially his chin. The baby's head had a fine covering of straight hair, which, as it dried, grew lighter in colour, edging towards the chestnut tones of Molly's hair.

The midwife was speaking again. Sherlock tore his eyes away from the baby. Molly was out of the pool now and sitting on that strange white semi-circular object that he had not recognised earlier. Helen was scooping something up into a surgical bowl and now Molly was being wrapped in a thermal blanket and helped over to the bed by Mrs Hudson.

Helen turned to him and said,

'I need to weigh and measure him and give him his Vit K, then you can have him back.' She held out her arms and Sherlock relinquished the baby to her, still in a daze. As the midwife took the baby over to the chest of drawers, where all her equipment was on hand, Sherlock got to his feet and crossed the room to the bed, where Molly was sitting, wrapped in two towels and a blanket, looking almost as dazed as he felt. He perched on the bed next to her and hugged her to him. He was speechless. There were so many emotions racing through his mind, he could not formulate a single coherent utterance. He just closed his eyes and held her tight. She felt small and fragile in his arms but he knew that was an illusion, She was a tower of strength and he loved her more than ever.

ooOoo


	39. Chapter 38

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Thirty Eight**

Molly reached up to touch Sherlock's face and he looked down, into her upturned face.

'Are you alright?' she asked. He looked back at her, in utter astonishment.

'Molly, it is I who should be asking you that question. Are you alright?'

She smiled and closed her eyes, resting her cheek against his shoulder.

'I am absolutely knackered but, apart from that, I have never felt better. That was the most wonderful experience! I can't begin to describe how perfect that was, for me. And I could never have done it without you.'

He shook his head and looked down at his hand, holding her's, against his chest.

'Now, we both know that's not true. You already did it once without me and you would have done it just as well if I had not been here.'

She sat up and pulled away from him, fixing him with a shocked expression.

'You can't believe that! I can't believe you do!' she exclaimed. But she could tell by the look in his eyes that he did.

'My God, Sherlock, for a clever man, you can be incredibly stupid!' She brought herself up short, closed her eyes and took a sharp intake of breath. This was not the right time for this conversation. She didn't want anything to spoil the beauty of this night. It was their baby's birthday and she only wanted good memories. She pulled his head down towards her own and kissed his soft, warm mouth, to silence any more self-doubting. Helen was crossing the room, bringing their baby back to them.

'Baby Hooper-Holmes, male, born today at 10.55 pm; weight, 3.06 kilos, length 61 centimetres; APGAR scores: 9 and 10. Congratulations. He's perfect.' She smiled and placed him in Molly's arms. She looked down, into those dark, liquid eyes and smiled. Yes, he was perfect.

Mrs Hudson backed into the room, pushing the door open as she came through, carrying a tray of tea. She placed the tray on the dressing table and turned to Sherlock.

'Want a cuppa, dear?' He nodded and she brought one over, placing it on the bedside table, in easy reach. 'What about you, Molly. Would you like a drink?'

'Just water, thanks, Mrs H, I'm really thirsty and I need to get the milk production moving. Talking of which…..' She opened the towel and blanket that were wrapped round her shoulders and closed them again, to encapsulate the baby, too. Then tilting forward, at the waist, she touched the corner of his mouth with one nipple, to stimulate his rooting reflex. Almost immediately, he started to move his lips, searching for the nipple to latch on to. It took him a couple of tries before he found what he was searching for but, when he did, his lips closed on it and she felt him begin to suckle, without any hesitation. She held his gaze, as he settled into a steady rhythm of suckling, making small snuffling noises as he breathed through his nose.

Helen was looking on, nodding with approval. She had given him a little suction, just to make sure his mouth and nasal passages were clear of mucus. Here was the proof that they were. She went back to clearing away the post-partum debris. Sherlock saw her pick up the surgical bowl that, he surmised, contained the placenta. He stood up, leaving Molly to enjoy her baby's first feed, and walked across to the midwife.

'Can I have that?' he asked.

She looked up into his face, wondering to what he was referring and realising that he meant the afterbirth.

'Oh, er, I suppose so. It usually goes in the biohazard for incineration. Although, some women like to eat it – lightly fried, usually. Can I ask what you would do with it?'

'I would dissect it, study it,' he replied, solemnly.

'Oh, I…I mean, I don't know.' She had never had such a request before. 'It's the property of the mother, actually…' She looked across at Molly for direction but Molly was engrossed with feeding. 'I will need Molly's permission to give it to you, sorry,' she said, with rueful smile. Sherlock nodded, pursed his lips and turned his head.

'Molly?' She looked up. 'Please, may I have your placenta?' he asked, as though he were asking for permission to eat the last slice of cake.

She smiled back at him.

'Of course you can, darling. I meant to ask you if you would like to have it.' She looked at Helen, smiled serenely, nodded and looked back at the baby. Helen swallowed, thinking that she might have just walked into a scene from 'The Addams Family', but handed the surgical bowl, with its dark, liver-coloured contents, over to him. He nodded, graciously, in thanks and took the bowl from her. He carried it through to the kitchen. Opening one of the drawers, he took out a roll of cling film. If there was one thing Molly insisted on, it was that anything that went into the fridge had to be sealed. He tore off a strip of the cling film and stretched it across the top of the bowl, wrapping it round and underneath, to seal in the contents. Then he popped it into the fridge, on the bottom shelf. As he was about to close the fridge door, he noticed two phials of blood, in the egg rack. He picked one up and read the label. It said;

'Molly Hooper – Cord blood' and the date. He checked that the other one said the same, then put them back and closed the door. Walking back into the bedroom, he saw that the baby was now suckling on Molly's other breast. He went into the bathroom and washed his hands, thoroughly, with the anti-bacterial soap, then came back in to the bedroom and, picking up his mug of tea, stood and sipped, watching Molly bond with her baby. He was envious. How marvellous must it be, he thought, to feel new life growing inside you and then, having brought it into the world, continue to give it sustenance? He felt envy but he did not begrudge Molly this intimacy with the baby. It was her role. His role was different but just as important.

As the baby finished suckling and Molly sat him up in her lap, supporting his chin and stroking his back, to wind him, Mrs Hudson came over to Sherlock and whispered,

'Is now a good time?' miming a carrying action. Oh, yes, he thought. Now was probably the perfect time. He put down his cup and disappeared out of the room. Mrs H crossed over to Molly, who looked up and said,

'Would you like to hold your new grandson, Mrs Hudson?' She gasped, in surprise, and held out her hands. Molly placed the baby, wrapped in his cellular blanket, into her arms.

'Watch he doesn't pee on you. He doesn't have a nappy on. Oh, God, we haven't got any nappies!' she suddenly thought, out loud.

'Oh yes we have,' replied Sherlock, coming back into the room and placing the Moses basket and its contents on the bed next to Molly. 'We've got everything we need, for now, anyway.'

Molly looked at the basket and its contents in disbelief. She reached inside and started to examine what it contained. There were two tiny, white, knitted cardigans, with crossover ties, four little cotton body suits, with envelope necks and popper gussets, two little nightdresses, with draw-string ties in the hems, a little white skull cap, two cellular crib blankets and several new-born baby-grows She picked these up, one at a time, utterly amazed and quite speechless. Underneath, there were sheets and blankets, for the Moses basket, a small pack of muslin squares and two baby towels, with corner hoods, and a pack of new-born disposable nappies. There were other things, too, like baby toiletries, a little rattle teether and a small white stuffed toy – which could have been a rabbit or a kitten, she wasn't sure. She picked up one of the baby-grows and held it up. Embroidered across the front were the words,

'Made from love'

Looking at all the items, they all had the same motif. She held the garment to her face and inhaled the smell of newness. Then she looked at him and held out her hand, which he took.

'You did all of this?' she asked.

He gave a little shrug and said,

'I had help,' inclining his head toward Mrs Hudson.

'Oh, no,' she declared. 'I cannot take any credit for any of this. He asked me to go with him, but only because he was too scared to go into the baby shops on his own. He knew exactly what he was looking for and he knew when he had found it. It was all his own work. I was just the interpreter. And body guard, on a couple of occasions, when the shop girls started to mob him.' All three ladies present chuckled at the thought of that image. Sherlock just rolled his eyes and waited for the hilarity to die down. Molly pulled him down to her level, so that he knelt on the floor, in front of her.

'You never stop surprising me,' she said, and kissed him. He smiled, a little embarrassed by all the attention, then suddenly remembered the blood in the fridge.

'The phials of cord blood, in the fridge? What is that for?' he asked, trying to sound casual.

'Oh, that was supposed to be a surprise! I forgot it was there. I asked Helen to draw off two lots of cord blood. I'm giving one to the hospital, for stem cell research and the other one is for you. It's a thank you present, for being so wonderful.' This time, it was his turn to kiss her.

ooOoo

Whilst Molly dressed the baby in his new clothes and Mrs Hudson made up the Moses basket, Helen and Sherlock continued to dismantle the birthing equipment. The electric pump had all but emptied the pool and Sherlock sopped up the dregs with the towels that had not yet been used for anything else. He then took out and folded the liner, deflated the pool, using the air pump, and stowed it back in the pack, along with the white plastic thing, which he now knew was a birthing stool. He gathered up the hose and tap attachment, the two pumps, thermometer and the pooper scooper – thankfully, unused – and stowed them, too. Finally, he folded the tarpaulin and put it with the pool pack.

Into this scene, of quiet industry, wandered a sleepy little boy in a pair of grey Star Trek pyjamas, rubbing his eyes and carrying his Snoopy toy, under his arm. All the comings and goings had disturbed his sleep, convincing him that it must be morning. But it was still dark outside, so that had confused him. He had come to find out what was going on. He paused, just inside the doorway, looking around in bewilderment at all the activity. Sherlock was the first to spot him and went straight over, kneeling down and putting his hands on his waist, to get his attention.

'Oh, sorry, William, did we wake you up? Come here, little man.'

The little boy put his arm round his father's neck and his head on his shoulder.

'Is the baby here yet?' he asked.

'Yes, he is here. You have a little brother. Would you like to see him?'

'Is he very little, like Lily Rose?'

'Yes, he's quite little but he's only just been born so he needed to be little to fit inside Mummy. But he'll grow fast, you'll see.'

'Does he smell funny?'

'I don't know. Not to me but maybe you'll think he does. He's over there. Mummy's getting him dressed.' Sherlock pointed towards the bed, where the baby was visible as a little white shape, lying next to Molly, as she put the finishing touches to his first outfit.

'What's his name?' asked William. Sherlock looked across at Molly then back at William and said,

'We haven't decided yet. We thought we'd get to know him first. Shall we go and see him?'

'Alright,' William agreed. Sherlock picked him up and carried him over to the bed, sitting down and settling the child on his knee, where he could see the baby lying on the bed. The new-born was still alert and wide-eyed, flexing his fingers and making mou-ing shapes with his mouth. His gaze was drawn to the bright white wall, to the left of the bed, illuminated by the bedside lamp. He stared at it, intently. William stared at him.

Molly finished dressing the baby then lifted him up and held him, cradled in her arms, so that he was facing William.

'This is your brother, William. Would you like to say hello to him?' Molly suggested.

'Will he say hello to me?' William asked.

'Er, no, he can't talk yet. But he can hear us talking and that's how he'll learn to talk, by listening to other people.'

William gave this matter some consideration, then leaned forward and said to the baby,

'Hello, baby. You haven't got a name yet so I'll call you Baby, but it's alright because you are the only baby in our house so we all know who you are. I'm William and I'm going to be your brother, so you will be my friend, when you learn to talk, OK? I know you can't say yes but you can just nod and I'll know what you mean.' William looked at the baby, expectantly.

Molly smiled and said,

'He can't nod his head, yet, either, William but I think he likes you. He is looking at you.' William nodded, then said to Sherlock,

'Can I go back to bed, now, Daddy? I'm really tired.' Sherlock stood up but, then, as an afterthought, said,

'Would you like to give your new brother a kiss?'

'No, thank you,' William replied.

'OK,' his father replied, trying to supress a smile. 'Say night-night, then.'

'Night-night, Mummy, night-night, Baby, night-night, Mrs Hudson,' he dutifully recited and Sherlock took him back to his room, via the bathroom, to have pee, since he was awake anyway. When he returned, Molly had put on her nightdress and was in bed, under the duvet. 'Baby' was in the Moses basket, on top of ottoman, at the foot of the bed. Mrs Hudson had excused herself and gone to bed, in the guest room. The midwife was just gathering up the last of her equipment, so Sherlock helped her to take it out to her car, parked outside the house.

'I'll be back at about ten o'clock tomorrow morning, to check on Molly and the baby,' she advised him. 'They are both absolutely fine. Molly just needs to rest. You both did a great job, tonight. I wish all my mums had such responsive birth partners. Quite often, the dads just think they're there to watch. You helped her a lot.'

Sherlock thanked her for her part and she drove away. He came back into the flat and was about to turn off all the lights and go into the bedroom, when it occurred to him that they hadn't told anyone that the baby had arrived. He looked at the time. It was after one in the morning. Mycroft would probably still be up. John might be, too, since they had their young baby. But, no, he decided. It could be their secret, just for tonight. They would tell everyone else tomorrow. He turned out the lights and went into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

ooOoo


	40. Chapter 39

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Thirty Nine**

The door buzzer sounded and Sherlock walked through to the hallway, to check the security screen image. It showed his brother, standing on the doorstep, looking anywhere but at the camera. The man hated clichés. He pressed the button to release the lock and took the two strides to open the door to their flat and let the visitor in.

'Mycroft,' he greeted him, 'how nice to see you.' He managed to put a fair degree of irony even into that short phrase.

'Just thought I'd drop by, see how the new mum is coping, and meet my new nephew,' Mycroft greeted him, as he entered the hallway and dutifully removed his shoes.

'You'll have to stop calling William your 'favourite nephew' now,' Sherlock reminded him. Mycroft ignored his brother's comment. There were any number of retorts he could have made but he was not here to have a verbal sparring match with Sherlock. He walked through to the sitting room.

'Where are they, by the way?' he asked, when he found the room empty.

'Molly's giving William his bath. And before you say anything, she insisted. She doesn't want William to feel deprived of her attention and she says it's good for her to keep active,' Sherlock declared. Mycroft gave him a withering look.

'Please do not try to second guess what I might be thinking, Sherlock. You would be punching way above your weight,' he retorted. Sherlock gave a small snort and walked into the kitchen.

'Can I offer you anything, brother? I'm afraid we've already eaten supper. Glass of wine?' he asked.

'Yes, that would be most welcome, thank you,' Mycroft replied and followed Sherlock into the kitchen, to stand on the opposite side of the table, looking pensive. Sherlock poured his brother a glass of red and handed it to him.

'And the new arrival?' Mycroft asked. 'Where is he?'

'He's in the bedroom, in his crib, sleeping. I was going to wait until Molly was here, to introduce you,' Sherlock replied.

Mycroft nodded and took a sip of his wine.

'This is clearly not just a social call,' Sherlock observed.

'No, not entirely, but I would prefer to wait until Molly is here, too, as what I have to say concerns you both.'

Sherlock gave a shrug and indicated that they return to the sitting room and sit down.

'Been busy at the office?' he asked, before taking a sip from his own glass.

'Exceptionally, but everything has calmed down a little, now. We've just appointed a new deputy. Seems like a useful chap. Only time will tell,' Mycroft replied.

This was a gross understatement. The new deputy came with glowing references from the Foreign Office, a First Class degree from one of the top Cambridge colleges and an exemplary CV. However, above and beyond all that, he had actually impressed Mycroft at every one of his three interviews, during the selection process. He had high hopes for the new Deputy HoD. He thought they would work well together but, more to the point, he was confident the new man could manage the department adequately, during his absence.

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of voices from the corridor, which led off the sitting room, to the bedrooms and the family bathroom – known, at the moment, as William's bathroom. This was followed, almost immediately, by the opening of the intervening door and the appearance in the room of William, dressed in his grey Star Trek pyjamas, designed to look like a Star Fleet uniform, with a High Command emblem on the right shoulder. Mycroft had given them to him, for his fourth birthday a few weeks before, and he'd hardly had them off, ever since. When he spotted his uncle, sitting in the arm chair, he ran across the room and threw himself at the visitor, who just managed to put down his wine glass, in time.

'Uncle Mycroft! Look! I'm wearing your pyjamas!' William squealed, with delight.

'So I see, old chap!' his uncle enthused, 'and may I say, they look much better on you that they would on me!' Mycroft stood up, hoisting the little boy into the air and turned, to greet Molly, as she entered the room.

'Have you come to read my bedtime story?' William asked, innocently, in the full knowledge that his uncle would never refuse.

'That is the precise reason why I'm here, William. However did you guess?' Mycroft replied and waited whilst Molly and Sherlock kissed William goodnight before bearing him off to his room, to choose a story.

'Mycroft looks tired,' Molly observed, once she and Sherlock were alone together. Sherlock shrugged, non-committally.

'He wants to tell us something but he wants to do it when we're both together,' he explained, handing Molly a glass of water. She was drinking water almost non-stop, at the moment, to ensure a good supply of milk.

When Mycroft emerged from the bedroom, forty minutes later, he found his brother standing by the window, with a muslin square draped over his shoulder, to protect his tailored shirt from any possible accidents, holding the new baby against his clavicle, with one hand under the child's bottom. The tiny infant looked very comfortable in this position, as did the person holding him. Mycroft was impressed with how at ease Sherlock seemed to be with his new son, already.

'He's just been fed,' Sherlock informed his brother.

Mycroft, ever the gentleman, walked over to Molly, lying on the sofa, urging her not to get up, and, instead of his customary peck on each cheek, he took her hand and kissed it.

'Congratulations, my dear, on your safe delivery,' he beamed.

'Thank you, Mycroft,' Molly replied, 'And thank you for the beautiful flowers, too,' indicating the huge bouquet, in the vase, in the middle of the kitchen table.

Nodding his acknowledgement of Molly's thanks, he walked over to stand beside his brother, looking into his new nephew's face, taking in the dark eyes, chestnut hair and pointed chin.

'Molly, dear, he is the very image of you!' he cooed, rubbing the baby's cheek, affectionately, with his index finger.

Returning to sit in the arm chair and taking up his abandoned glass of wine, he wasted no time launching into his mission.

'I wanted to give you something, a gift, to mark the arrival of the new Hooper-Holmes baby. I'm aware that, now that you have a second child, this flat does not really meet your needs as a family home. I note that a house has come up for sale, on this crescent. It's a family home, similar in age and design to this one, but not divided into flats. I won't go into detail, at the moment, but I think it would suit you and your growing family rather well. I'd like to buy it for you, if you would allow me to do that – assuming that you like the look of it, of course.'

Molly was astounded. She could not begin to imagine how much a house in this neighbourhood might cost.

'Mycroft, that is incredibly generous of you but I really don't think we could accept such a gift,' she spluttered.

'Why ever not?' Mycroft asked. 'I mean, whatever I give you now, it just means you won't have to pay Inheritance Tax on it after I've shuffled off this mortal coil…'

'Don't talk like that!' Molly almost shrieked. Mycroft immediately looked concerned.

'I am so sorry, Molly. That was just a little private joke, for Sherlock's benefit. I really didn't intend to upset you. It was insensitive of me. I do apologize.'

'Is that all you wanted to tell us, Mycroft?' Sherlock cut in. His brother gave one of his most inscrutable smiles and said,

'How very astute of you. No, that was the main reason why I came to see you, and to meet that young man, of course, but I do have more to add.' He took another sip of his wine and then put his glass down on the coffee table before going on.

'I'm sure you're both aware that I am not happy with the situation concerning Joan Manning. I don't believe she should have been let off so lightly – in fact let off completely – for her crimes, against the state, as well as against you, Sherlock. I will be honest, it has caused me to question my own commitment to my professional role. So, I'm taking some extended leave, to consider my future.' He paused and there was a moment of stunned silence before Molly asked,

'Mycroft, are thinking of resigning?'

Sherlock said nothing but the expression on his face was one of suspicion rather than disbelief.

'I haven't made any decisions, Molly, dear. I want to distance myself from the recent situation before I come to any conclusions. At the present time, I have a completely open mind on the subject,' he concluded.

Molly looked from Mycroft to Sherlock and back again, waiting for Sherlock to say something but he remained silent on that subject. Instead, he said,

'Where were you thinking of spending your extended leave? At home?'

'Actually, no,' Mycroft replied. 'I'll be returning to America, a week from today, and will spend most of my leave there. I am, currently, having some work done on the house – some refurbishments – so I thought it would be better to absent myself until all the mess has been cleared away. But don't concern yourself with that, Sherlock. The Estates Manager will oversee the work, in my absence.'

'I wasn't about to concern myself with it. The house is yours, to do with as you wish. I have no interest in it, as you well know,' Sherlock interjected.

'Well, that's fine, then,' Mycroft stated.

'What are you up to?' Sherlock demanded, abruptly. He had moved beyond suspicious, now, into angry and accusing. Responding to the sudden tension in his father's body and voice, the baby began to gristle. Molly sat up and held out her hands toward Sherlock. He walked over and passed the baby, gently, to his mother.

The two brothers then stared at one another, one bristling with animosity, the other shaking his head, in a parody of despair. Mycroft capitulated first.

'Why do I have to be up to something?' he asked, his demeanour changing to one of disappointment and resignation.

'I know you too well, Mycroft. You always have a hidden agenda. You don't know how to be any other way,' Sherlock snapped.

'I did not come here for a fight, Sherlock. I came to offer you a gift and to keep you advised of my plans,' Mycroft retorted, opening his hand, in a gesture of innocence.

Sherlock was not in a mood to be appeased.

'It is true, what you say, about the Inheritance Tax, so we will go and look at the house and we'll let you know.' Sherlock stood up. He was angry. Molly didn't fully understand why but guessed that this anger had an historical origin. Mycroft interpreted his sibling's gesture as his cue to leave, so he stood, too, kissed Molly on both cheeks, whilst imploring her, again, not to get up and stroked the baby's head. He apologised again for upsetting her and she told him not to be so silly. Then Sherlock saw him to the door.

'You are plotting, Mycroft, I know it. I just wish you would either tell me what you're up to or just sod off and do it and not involve us at all. Molly does not need to be upset, just now.'

'I am truly sorry for upsetting Molly. I adore the girl! You know that, don't you?'

Sherlock nodded.

'You will let me know, about the house, won't you?'

He nodded again.

Mycroft offered his hand and Sherlock took it, reluctantly, then the older brother left.

When Sherlock returned to the sitting room, Molly was looking close to tears. He sat next to her, on the sofa, and took her hand.

'I'm sorry, Molly, I shouldn't allow Mycroft to get under my skin, especially around you and the baby. Forgive me.'

She squeezed his hand.

'You don't think he's ill, do you?' she asked.

'I don't know. He's been keeping secrets for so long, I don't think he knows how to be straight up. That line about shuffling off his mortal coil, our father used to say that. Every time he gave either of us anything, he would make the Inheritance Tax comment. I never found it funny. In fact, it used to really piss me off. Anyway, don't get yourself wound up about it. I'm sure he meant well, about the house, I mean. We don't have to even think about it, if you don't want to. Let's just forget about it, hey?' He put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze, resting his head on top of hers. She cuddled into his body and closed her eyes.

Sherlock looked down at the baby, now fast asleep in his mother's arms.

'We really should decide on a name for him. We can't keep calling him 'The Baby'.

'Well, William has had a couple of ideas,' Molly began. 'He told me whilst I was supervising bath time.'

Sherlock looked at her, enquiringly.

'He would like us to call him Bin.'

'Bin? Not Ben?'

'No, I asked him if he meant Ben, but he said, no, he meant Bin. Or, if not that, then Lid.' Molly couldn't keep her face straight any longer and burst out laughing.

'Bin Lid Hooper-Holmes' Sherlock sampled the name.

'Or Lid Bin,' Molly suggested. They both laughed.

'I wonder where he got those from?' Sherlock wondered, marvelling at the bizarre choice.

'He said he liked the sound of them. You know how he gets a thing about certain words. He just likes the way they sound or he likes the way they feel when he says them. Remember when he first heard the word 'bonobos'? He went around saying it for days.'

Sherlock did remember. William could be a little perseverant, at times, not unlike himself.

'I suspect that, whatever name we give him, now, he will always be Bin Lid to William.'

'Actually, I think he meant Bin or Lid, not both.'

'Well, that's OK, then. Bin, it is.'

'What about Edward?' Molly suggested. 'Does he look like an Edward to you?'

Sherlock looked at the baby, thoughtfully.

'If we called him Edward, his friends would call him Eddie, Ed, Ted, Teddy, maybe even Ned. Eddie Hooper-Holmes? No, maybe as a middle name but not a forename,' he concluded. 'Do you have any family names?'

'Only William, and that's already taken,' Molly replied. 'How about you?'

Sherlock shook his head.

'We only do weird names in our family. I wouldn't wish my name on any child, or my brother's, either. He needs a nice normal name.'

OK, let's see what we can come up with, shall we? Let's start with the 'A's.'

Sherlock took a breath and launched into a recitation.

'Andrew, Albert, Alfred, Arnold, Aaron, Alan, Arthur, Agamemnon, Barry, Bert, Bartholomew, Charles, Chesney, Carlton, Carl, Colin, Claude, David, Duncan, Donald, Edward, Eustace, Eric, Edwin, Euripides,…'

'Stop!' Molly implored, giggling helplessly. 'Agamemnon Euripides Hooper-Holmes. Perfect! We need look no further!'

A deep, baritone chuckle rumbled in Sherlock's chest.

'Let's sleep on it,' he suggested, 'I'm sure we'll think of something. We've got six weeks, haven't we?' Molly nodded.

'And, in the meantime, we can just call him 'Lid',' Sherlock concluded.

ooOoo


	41. Chapter 40

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**This chapter is dedicated to the amazing MapleLeafCameo who inspires us all! Have a great birthday, MLC, how ever bitter-sweet. xxx**

**Chapter Forty**

Anthea sat at her desk, contemplating the email she had received from her boss, Mycroft Holmes, just a few moments ago. He had been on extended leave for six weeks, now, and this was the first communication she had received from him – and it was an email. Mycroft Holmes did not email. He had an email account, of course, but he refused to use it, on principle. If he needed to send an email, he would dictate it to her and she would send it. He had a similar attitude to texts, preferring to phone, but would resort to texting, if absolutely necessary – usually when his brother ignored his calls. Not only was this email a rare event, its contents, too, were intriguing. His instructions were very specific and she would follow them to the letter.

Even as she made a mental note of the details of that email, the door to her office opened and Henry Fitzwalter came in.

'Good morning, Anthea,' he greeted her, with a dazzling smile.

'Good morning, sir' she replied, not smiling.

'Oh, Anthea, how many times must I tell you? Please, call me Henry. I insist!'

'As I have said before, sir, Mr Holmes does not approve of familiarity amongst the staff. He insists that formal etiquette be adhered to at all times,' she reiterated, for the zillionth time.

'And, as I have said many times to you, dearest Anthea, Mr Holmes isn't here and whilst the cat's away….' He smiled, that irritating Lounge Lizard smile, that made Anthea want to punch those artificially whitened teeth right down his smarmy little gullet. She, however, maintained her cool, professional demeanour and replied,

'I've received an email from Mr Holmes, this morning, sir. He is returning to the UK in four days' time.'

'Really?' Henry Fitzwalter looked most put out. 'Ah, but he won't be returning to work, yet, will he. He still has nearly three weeks of his leave left.'

'He may have decided to return early, sir. His email didn't specify but he is not a man who enjoys inactivity,' Anthea replied, innocently, enjoying the effect of her words on the Acting HoD.

The man had been the bane of her life, ever since he had taken over his temporary post, at the beginning of Mycroft's absence. Prior to that, he had been the epitome of professionalism – polite but reserved. She had even quite liked him and was looking forward to working with him for the two month duration of her boss's leave. However, the moment Mycroft was off the scene, the man changed from Dr Jekyll to Mr Hide. He seemed to think he was James Bond to her Miss Moneypenny. He flirted with her, relentlessly. And, no matter how many times she reminded him that Mycroft did not tolerate his staff fraternising, inside or outside the office, he had badgered her for a date, unremittingly, for the last six weeks. She had tried to make it clear that, even if such things were not frowned upon, he was the last person in the world she would consider dating but the man's ego was so enormous he failed to comprehend or even to entertain the possibility that she was not remotely attracted to him. He was positively narcissistic.

As Henry Fitzwalter pulled a face and walked into Mycroft's office, closing the door, in a bit of a huff, Anthea offered up a silent prayer that her real boss would not wait out his full two months of leave but would return immediately to his office, straight from the plane. She checked the detailed instructions in Mycroft's email and set about implementing them.

ooOoo

Sherlock was in the kitchen of 221B Baker Street, standing at the counter, dissecting Molly's placenta, to make into slides. The day after the birth of his son, he had placed the placenta in a plastic zip lock bag and popped it into the freezer, for future examination, since he knew he would be fully occupied with his role of househusband and father for the first few days, if not weeks, of the baby's life. But that was seven weeks ago and Molly, aware that he was itching to get stuck into the dissection and study of the afterbirth, had given him the day off and told him to 'go and have some fun' so here he was.

Having missed out on William's early years, he was determined to play a full and active role in those of the new addition to the family. He had embraced with alacrity every aspect of the new baby's care – nappy changing, bathing, dressing, and burping – the whole nine yards. He wanted to experience it all. He was so in awe of Molly's endurance, during her labour and wanted her to rest and recuperate from her exertions. During the day, he would barely allow her to lift a finger, insisting on taking on most of the housework and food preparation himself. Molly said he would make someone a brilliant au pair, one day.

When Molly got up to do the night time feeds, he took over the winding and nappy changing, so she could go straight back to bed, afterwards. The little chap was a bit of a night owl and was usually in the mood to play, after his 4 am feed, so Sherlock, who had always been more of an owl than a lark, spent the small hours playing lap games with his newest offspring, introducing him to finger rhymes he had learnt from his nanny, and humming classical tunes to him, as he walked him up and down the sitting room, until he was lulled back to sleep. It was during one of their middle-of-the-night play sessions that he looked into those liquid eyes and saw a Freddie looking back. He asked Molly, the next day, what she thought of the name Frederick and she liked it, too. A day or two later, she suggested George, for a middle name, and so it was settled. He was Frederick George - Freddie, for short.

Sherlock had been doing some Internet research into infant development, most specifically, that of visual acuity, and learned that new-borns were visually drawn to points of high contrast, such as the corner of a white triangle against a black background, so he made some high contrast images, which he fixed around the inside of the Moses basket, so that Freddie had something to look at, that would draw his eye and engage his attention, when he was alert and in his crib. It was Sherlock's idea that Molly express some milk, on alternate evenings, so that he could do some of the night time feeds, after which they took turns to get up at 4 am. Molly was reminded of that night, two years ago, when he had come to her flat, full of self-doubt, telling her he was not father material, that he had nothing to bring to the table. How wrong could he have been? Like everything else he put his mind to, he was brilliant at it.

The afterbirth was a treasured acquisition, especially as it came with the added bonus of the umbilical cord, still attached, and the amnion, as well. These three structures, when dissected and made into slides, would make for hours of stimulating investigation. And that was before he even got to the cord blood, which he had frozen, too. He was aware that the freezing and defrosting process would affect the basic structure of the cells but that could not be helped. He would work with what he had. Maybe, when Molly went back to work, she would be able to get him a fresh one to study. He was just about to begin the next step in the slide-making process when his phone rang. It was lying on the counter top, where he could see it, in case Molly needed to reach him. He saw that it was Anthea calling. He quickly pulled off one nitrile glove and answered the call.

'Hello, Sherlock, how are you?' she asked.

'Alive, thanks to you,' he replied.

'Happy to oblige,' she answered and quickly moved on. 'I've had an email from Mycroft. He's coming home on Friday and he would like you and Molly to meet him at the airport.'

'Really?' Sherlock queried. 'Has he run out of minions?'

'No, he wants me to be there, too,' she replied, with a smile.

Sherlock went quiet at the other end of the phone. Anthea just waited.

'I don't suppose you know what this is all about?' he asked.

'No, I don't but, as you know, even if I did, I would not tell you unless instructed to do so,' she stated. 'He's asked me to send a car for you, to pick you up at ten in the morning. His plane is due to land at eleven, so you would be there in good time.'

'I don't suppose I have a lot of choice, do I? He knows how to lure me in with all his cloak and dagger intrigue. Alright, we'll be there, I suppose, unless anything more interesting crops up.'

'Sherlock, I do hope you are joking. I don't know what is going on in your brother's life but I know that he really wants you there, at the airport, when he lands. He even emailed to ask me to arrange it.'

'Did he? Emailed? Good Lord, that is serious. Alright, we will be there, scouts honour. You can meet the new baby, Anthea, if you'd like to.'

'I would love to,' she replied. 'What did you name him, in the end?'

'Frederick George.'

Oh, like Handel, but in reverse.'

'Well, yes, I hadn't spotted that but you're right. Maybe he'll grow up to be an organist.'

'That would be lovely. He and William could do organ and violin recitals.'

'I'm not sure the world is ready for that particular auditory experience but, I suppose, only time will tell.'

Anthea laughed, said goodbye and cut off the call. Sherlock stood in the kitchen, tapping his phone against his chin and wondering what this summons to Heathrow could be about. The next three days would be frustrating.

ooOoo

Anthea was sitting in the private Arrivals lounge, in Terminal Five, at Heathrow Airport, waiting for Mycroft's plane to land. She had carried out his rather curious instructions, down to the last detail. She, too, was intrigued about what Mycroft had been doing but she knew far more than Sherlock did. She knew that Mycroft had been in Boston and that he had been consulting a private medical clinic. For what reason, she had no idea. But the secret would soon be revealed. Mycroft's plane was due to land in half an hour.

The door from the main terminal opened and Molly entered, closely followed by Sherlock, holding the door open with one hand and carrying a baby car seat in the other. Anthea stood to greet them. Molly came straight over and gave her a warm hug.

'I never had the chance to thank you, in person, for what you did for Sherlock. I am so grateful to you. We both are,' she declared. Sherlock placed the baby seat, carefully, on one of the easy chairs and looked around the room before leaning forward, rather stiffly and giving Anthea a fleeting peck on the cheek, followed by a quick, embarrassed smile.

'Well, we made it,' he said, rather unnecessarily.

Anthea diverted her attention to the baby, who was sound asleep.

'Oh, Ms Hooper, he is absolutely gorgeous. I think I'm in love!' she enthused.

A young man in cabin crew uniform served Molly and Sherlock from a fresh tea tray, which he had brought in, at Anthea's request. Sherlock took his cup and saucer and stood by the window, looking out at the apron of the airfield. He saw the Virgin plane taxi into position and a passenger boarding bridge extend out from the terminal, to connect to it.

'Is he flying Virgin?' he called, over his shoulder, to Anthea.

'He is,' she replied.

'I think he's here, then.'

If this was Mycroft's plane, as a First Class passenger travelling on a diplomatic passport, Sherlock knew he would be disembarked first and would not pass through Customs, so he turned and rested his back against the window, watching the door on the airport side, waiting for his brother to appear.

After what seemed an inordinate amount of time, the door did open but, instead of Mycroft, Sherlock saw a young woman, carrying hand luggage, enter the private lounge. Anthea, who had risen when Sherlock announced her boss's imminent arrival, walked toward the woman, greeting her with a smile. Sherlock was about to ask who she was when a second woman entered, also carrying hand luggage, but his eye was taken by the luggage. It wasn't a bag….

Mycroft stepped through the door and began to direct the women to place their luggage on the easy chairs which Molly and Anthea had vacated just moments before. Sherlock watched, in state of surreal confusion, as Molly looked at the luggage, turned to Mycroft, uttered a cry of delight and astonishment and engulfed him in an enthusiastic hug. As though in slow motion, Sherlock put his cup and saucer down on the window ledge and moved toward the group of people in the middle of the room, his eyes fixed on the objects now sitting on the chairs. His eyes were not deceiving him. They were baby carriers and there were two of them – three, if one counted Freddie's. He came to a stop by the chairs and looked down into the carriers then looked up, to meet his brother's gaze. His lips parted, as if to speak, but no sound emerged.

'I think you might need to breathe, Sherlock, or I may have to ask Miss Smith to resuscitate you again,' Mycroft remarked, blithely.

'I'd like you to meet my children,' he continued.

He placed a gentle hand on the head of one of the sleeping babies.

'This is Katherine Anne, my daughter.'

Then he placed his other hand, softly, on the head of the second sleeping child.

'And this is my son, Charles Edward.'

He then stood upright again and looked into his brother's eyes. At that moment, Mycroft's expression faltered and Sherlock saw the same look of vulnerable desperation he had seen all those weeks ago, in his brother's flat in Knightsbridge. That broke the spell. He stepped forward, reached out and threw his arms around his sibling. After a moment of shocked hesitation, Mycroft reciprocated and the brothers hugged for the first time in too many years.

Molly put her hand to her mouth and stifled a sob, her vision misted by sudden tears. Anthea reached out and squeezed her arm. The other two ladies, who had not yet been introduced to the assembly, looked at one another and smiled, just a little self-consciously.

Sherlock gripped Mycroft tightly and turned his face towards his shoulder.

'I had not idea, Mycroft. No idea. Why didn't you tell me?'

Mycroft spoke into Sherlock's hair,

'And tell you what? That I was so envious of you, in your domestic bliss? That, whilst you were away, risking your life, I was playing house with your family, to fend off the loneliness? How could I tell you?'

Sherlock lifted his head to look into his brother in the eyes.

'I would have understood. I would have supported you. You didn't have to sneak off and do it all by yourself. And how did you do it, anyway?'

'That is a long story for another time, brother. But the reason I told no one, not even you, was in case it didn't work or something went wrong. I didn't want to have to live with the pity, along with the heart ache and the loneliness.'

Mycroft put his hands on his brother's shoulders and gave him a small shake.

'But it did work, and here they are, my little miracles. Come along, brother, we are neglecting out guests.' Mycroft turned toward the ladies and transformed, smoothly, back into the man from the ministry. He introduced the two young ladies as Sara and Michele, the babies' nannies, and then he introduced his children to Molly and Anthea.

Sherlock stepped back and sat down, heavily, in one of the easy chairs. He rubbed his jaw with a trembling hand. This room – this same room – was where he discovered that he was a father for the first time. Now it was the scene of an equally stunning revelation about his only brother. In a very short space of time, he had gone from having just one – somewhat estranged – living blood relative to now having five. The two people he would have put money on, had he been a betting man, to never achieve any sort of normal family life, had both accomplished just that. The Universal Equilibrium must be reeling!

His thoughts were interrupted by the touch of Molly's hand in his. He looked up and she was standing next to him.

'Are you alright?' she asked, softly, sitting down beside him, putting her arm around his waist. He gave a small, fragile smile and nodded.

'Never better,' he replied.

ooOoo


	42. Chapter 41

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Forty One**

As the assembled adults began to chat amongst themselves, Anthea caught the eye of the young man who had served tea, earlier. She gave him a nod and he disappeared through a side door. A few moments later, the door opened again and a bevy of catering staff entered, pushing and pulling a catering trolley which bore trays of canapés and an ice bucket, with a bottle of champagne, keeping cool, inside it. They positioned the trolley to one side of the group of chairs where the company were standing or sitting, and began to make preparations to serve the food and the champagne. Mycroft gave the trolley a critical overview and nodded his approval, then strolled over to where Anthea was standing.

'Thank you, my dear, you have done me proud,' he told her, with a smile of gratitude.

'It has been my pleasure, sir. And, may I add my congratulations for the safe arrival of your beautiful babies?'

'Thank you, Anthea. That's very kind of you.' Mycroft looked across the room at the two nannies, holding the babies on their laps, chatting to Molly, who was holding Freddie, no doubt comparing notes on feeding schedules, temperaments and emerging personalities. Sherlock, he noted, was sitting apart from the women, apparently deep in thought. He owed him a full explanation. He would give one, all in good time.

'I trust everything is satisfactory at the office? Has my deputy been up to the task?' he asked. Anthea glanced down at the floor, fleetingly, before looking back at her boss and replying,

'He manages the department well, sir. He's very efficient and very observant. Nothing gets past him.'

'But? I do sense a 'but', Miss Smith.' Mycroft only ever called her by her surname when he thought she was not telling him something – usually, because she didn't like to trouble him with trivialities.

'Well, sir, I don't like to tell tales out of school but he can be rather…..over-familiar, especially with female staff members,' she admitted, reluctantly. Mycroft pursed his lips. He had made it clear, during the selection process, that this sort of behaviour would not be tolerated. This was nothing less than sexual harassment. He would deal with this.

'Thank you for that information, Anthea. Leave it with me.'

One of the catering staff approached with a tray, bearing two glasses of champagne. Mycroft took one and gave it to Anthea, then the other for himself. He cleared his throat then raised his voice and his glass,

'To new life' he said, and everyone else agreed.

ooOoo

The car pulled up outside the Holmes' country residence and the chauffeur climbed out to open the rear door. William jumped out first, followed closely by Molly. Sherlock stepped out on the far side and released the baby carrier from the safety belt, before lifting it out, too. The family had been invited to lunch and to see the new Nursery that had been fitted out whilst Mycroft was in Boston, awaiting the birth of his twins. But Molly knew, the real reason for their visit was for Mycroft and Sherlock to have 'that conversation'.

Sherlock had been very distracted, ever since the big reveal, at the airport, two days before. She wasn't sure exactly what was affecting him so much but one thing she did know was that he didn't resent Mycroft for having his family. That was definitely not it. His brother had done this momentous thing without him even having the slightest inkling. He had known he was up to something, but this was the last thing he would have suspected and she wondered if it was that fact that was playing on his mind. How could he not have known that his brother was so desperate for a family?

She hoped that, once he'd worked things out with Mycroft, he would be able to tell her. It had been rather like living with a sleep-walker, for the last two days. He had been functioning but so deep in thought. William had summed it up, the day before, when he had said,

'Daddy, are you watching TV inside your head?'

That had brought Sherlock up short and he had apologised for his inattentiveness and made a real effort to be 'present', at least when the boys were around. But Molly could see it was a struggle. She had tried to get him to talk about it but all he would say was,

'It's nothing, really. I'm being stupid. I'll get over it.'

ooOoo

Mycroft came out to greet them and swung William up into his arms, to the little boy's delight.

'Where are your babies, Uncle Mycroft?' he asked.

'They're in their Nursery, William. You must come and meet them.'

'Are they very small, like Baby Bin?'

'In deed, they are. Is that a problem?'

'Hmm,' William considered. 'Only if I squash them. I'll have to be careful not to do that.'

'Yes, that would be very unfortunate but I'm sure it won't happen. Come on, let's go and see them, shall we?'

Mycroft led the way into the house. Once inside, Sherlock put the baby carrier on a chair in the hall and, having removed his coat and handed it to Andrew, lifted 'Baby Bin', as William had dubbed Freddie, out of his carrier and plopped him onto his shoulder. Freddie snuggled into his father's collar and didn't even wake up.

Mycroft and William were already on the main landing and heading for the second flight of stairs. Molly put the 'baby bag' on the chair, next to the carrier, took Sherlock's hand and followed him up the stairs.

'I wonder what Mycroft's done with the old Nursery?' he speculated. 'I used to love that place, especially after he moved out and I had it all to myself. In fact, when I turned thirteen and my parents had me moved out into my new room, it actually broke my heart. They never even asked my opinion. It never occurred to them to do that.'

Sherlock didn't talk much about his childhood but the few little snippets he had given her were all, like this one, negative experiences. She wondered whether he had any happy childhood memories at all. They climbed up to the second landing and Mycroft was standing by the door, waiting, rather theatrically, for the 'audience' to arrive. Once they were all assembled, he opened the door and beckoned them in.

Molly stepped through the doorway into the most light, airy, inviting room she had ever encountered. It was like a child's dream of Paradise. She had been in the old Nursery and this room was twice as big as the original. The pitched attic roof, at the back of the house, previously devoid of any features, now had two large Velux windows, giving an inviting view of the blue sky and fluffy white clouds of this sunny day. The floor was divided into areas, delineated by different coloured floor covering.

The middle section, between the two gable windows, which faced south, being at the front of the house, was the sleeping area and was furnished with two matching bespoke wooden cots, complete with patterned bumpers and matching drapes. Each one had, suspended above it, a mechanical mobile of brightly coloured animal shapes which, when switched on, rotated and played a tune. The cots were currently occupied by the two babies, both sound asleep. Next to that, was a dressing area, which had two large cupboards, with drawers underneath, which Molly opened to find contained all the clothes, nightwear, towels, nappies and bedding and every other item which two babies could possibly need.

Over against the back wall, another area was fitted out with soft play equipment - wedges, rings, rolls and cubes in bright, primary colours, and, beside that, were two painted trunks, one with a large 'C' on the top and the other with an equally large 'K'. These were obviously toy boxes. Molly could only guess at what might be in there.

Over to the right, the furniture was arranged like a sitting room, with a sofa and armchairs, in soft Mint green upholstery, which gave it a calm, relaxing character. A coffee table and a flat screen TV completed the ensemble. Sara, one of the nannies had been sitting there, reading a book, when the party came in and she now stood, smiling at the guests. Molly returned her smile and continued to take in all the features of the room.

The most stunning part of the whole display was the mural, painted on the back wall and running up the pitched ceiling. It was a tree, with a sturdy, broad trunk, which divided and sub-divided into branches, each twig and leaf individually painted and set against a blue background, the colour of a summer sky. It was quite breath-taking.

'Oh, my goodness, Mycroft, this is so beautiful! Your children will think they're in Fairyland!' Molly enthused. William certainly did seem to think he was. He was standing in the middle of the room, looking around, taking in all the detail, before running over to the soft play area and throwing himself in amongst the shapes.

'Whoa! Shoes off, Will!' Molly called and William dutifully removed his shoes and tossed them out of the way, before resuming his game of rough and tumble.

Sherlock hadn't said anything. He just stood and looked around, his expression unreadable. Molly imagined he was comparing the new incarnation of the Nursery to the one he remembered. She wondered whether he approved.

'There is a bedroom with an en suite, at that end, for the duty nanny's use and a kitchen at this end, for the preparation of snacks and feeds – that sort of thing,' Mycroft was explaining. 'Sara and Michele each have their own rooms on the first floor, for their leisure time, so that, when they are off duty they really are off duty. I don't expect them to be slaves to the children. It's early days and we are all still getting to know one another but I'm happy with how things have gone so far.'

Sherlock had wandered over to one of the windows and was looking out at the long, curved driveway – at what used to be his view, when he occupied this room. That view had hardly changed. Some of the trees were bigger and some weren't there at all but had been replaced with new ones but, essentially, it was as he remembered it. He had not stood here for almost two thirds of his lifetime. A multitude of memories were flooding his mind, jostling for position. He felt something touch his hand and looked down to find Molly standing next to him.

'Give Freddie to me. Mycroft wants to talk to you,' she said, quietly. He looked across at his brother, who was standing by the door, looking back at him. He plucked the baby off his shoulder and handed him over to Molly, then bent forward and kissed her, softly, on the cheek, before following the other man out of the Nursery and down the stairs, to the study.

ooOoo

Sherlock felt as though he were being summoned. He recalled, vividly, following his father down these stairs, along this self-same route, to the study, to be reprimanded for some misdeed or other. From the back, Mycroft even looked like his father. It gave him a bizarre sense of déjà vu. When they reached the study, Mycroft invited Sherlock to sit and then sat himself.

'You must have a lot of questions,' Mycroft began.

'Many, yes,' Sherlock agreed. 'Let's start with how.'

'IVF,' Mycroft replied.

'I'd worked that much out for myself, Mycroft. Perhaps you could be a bit more specific. Like, who is the mother, for example?'

'They have two mothers, their biological mother, who provided the eggs, and the surrogate mother, who carried the foetuses. It seemed the best way. The surrogate had no biological investment in the babies so was less likely to become emotionally attached to them. They were never her babies, so to speak. They were just in her womb. We implanted three embryos, with the proviso that, if all three were successful, one would be reduced.'

The look on Sherlock's face caused Mycroft to hold up his hands and explain,

'The surrogate did not want to carry three babies to term.'

He then went on,

'As it happened, only two of the embryos implanted successfully, so no reduction was necessary. I paid for the surrogate's services and I paid all her medical bills and will continue to do so for another year, in case she develops any specifically childbirth-related conditions.'

'Why did you go to America to do this? Why not here, in the UK?'

'The law is different here. In the US, the babies were legally mine, from the moment of conception. Over here, the law is less clear. The biological mother could have claimed equal rights to the children as, in deed, could the surrogate mother, since they grew in her womb. I wanted to avoid any possible complications.'

'Why didn't you tell me?'

'I've already explained why. I was concerned it wouldn't succeed.'

'But you had all that work done, on the Nursery. You interviewed nannies. By that time, you must have felt pretty confident it was going to be fine. But you still didn't tell me. Molly thought you were ill. I thought you were ill. And you knew it! You let us believe that!'

For the first time, Mycroft dropt his gaze and looked guilty.

'You're right. It was very wrong of me to do that. I could have told you before I went back to Boston, the last time. Only the worst disaster imaginable could have caused the loss of both babies so I would have had something to show for my efforts.'

Sherlock was looking at him, demanding more.

'I suppose I wanted to surprise you….'

'No, you wanted to shock me, and you certainly did that.'

The placating hands were raised again.

'Sherlock, what do you want me to say? I can only apologise, for making you worry, unnecessarily, and I do. I am truly sorry.'

'What happened to us, Mycroft? What made us like this? Daggers drawn, all the time, always looking to score points over one another? We weren't always like this, were we?'

'No, not always, just for a very long time.'

'I realised something, the other day, and it's been plaguing me, ever since. When was the last time we hugged?'

'I don't remember.'

'I do. I was thirteen. It was when you went against our father's express wishes and brought my violin to school. Do you remember?'

Mycroft's expression was one of amazement.

'Good Lord, so it was! I had completely forgotten about that.'

'I hadn't. I have felt guilty about it, for years – not about hugging you but about grassing you up, to Mother. And when I rang you, to apologise, you told me never to phone you again. Have you any idea how that made me feel?'

'Yes, Sherlock, I have – now – because I'm an adult and I understand these things but then, we were just children. We didn't know any better.'

'But it's incidents like that that have maintained this breach between us, ever since. Everything has been brushed under the carpet, for all these years. All these unresolved issues, festering away. Keeping secrets from one another, never showing any sign of weakness, We never deal with anything. We just try to get the better of one another. Is this the way for adults – parents – to behave?'

'As always, Sherlock, you are completely right. We are both parents now and should perhaps begin to behave as such.'

'Except, of course, you have been behaving like my parent for as long as I can remember, trying to control my life.'

'I never wanted to control your life. All I have ever wanted was to take care of you because you seem, at times, singularly incapable of taking care of yourself. I know it didn't always appear like that to you and I also know there were times when I was a little over-zealous in my efforts to protect you but my intensions were always honourable.'

'You mean like the house?'

'The house?'

'Yes, offering to buy a house for Molly and me. Do you not think us capable of deciding for ourselves when and to where we would like to move?'

'I thought it would be a nice gesture. It seemed like the perfect opportunity. Homes do not come up for sale in that area very often. And, no, I suppose I didn't think it would occur to you to consider moving somewhere bigger.'

'You never gave us the opportunity to come to that point ourselves. You up-staged us.'

'Again, I must apologise. I never saw it in that light.'

'Well, it has to stop. Now you have a family of your own – now you are a father in your own right - you must stop trying to be a father to me. I don't want or need a father. What I both want and need is a brother.'

Mycroft absorbed this statement, pursing his lips and averting his eyes, as the implications of that pronouncement enumerated themselves in his mind, not the least of those being what it had cost his brother to expose this sentiment to him. Sherlock was a proud man and the foundation of all his pride was his belief in his own inviolability. To admit to this need, Mycroft knew, would have cost him dear. He felt touched that his brother had chosen to entrust him with this admission. He knew that a great deal depended on how he responded now. This could be a pivotal moment in their relationship.

'Well, that's rather convenient because that is all I want and need, too.'

Sherlock's steely expression held for a bare millisecond before his face began to crumple and he dropped his head into his hands, to hide his embarrassment. Mycroft moved forward, out of his chair, and put his arms around his brother's shoulders. They stayed like that for quite some time, until Sherlock, finally, raised his head and looked into his brother's eyes.

'My goodness, two hugs in as many days! Are we going for the Touchy-Feely Championship or the Guinness Book of Records?' Mycroft conceded a thin smile and moved back to his chair.

'Anyway, it's too late for the house. It's been sold,' Sherlock shrugged.

'I know,' Mycroft replied. 'I bought it. I decided if you didn't want it, I'd buy it myself, either to let or to use as a town house, I haven't decided yet.'

'Perhaps I'll buy it from you. I believe I can afford it.'

'In deed, you can. The annual income from your trust fund is quite considerable. You wouldn't need to touch the capital'

'Well, that's another thing. Don't you think that, at my age and with a wife and two children, I should be allowed to control my own finances?'

Mycroft thought about this and nodded, slowly.

'You can still be a trustee, if it makes you feel better, but I think I've proven that I can behave responsibly, most of the time.'

'When you're not risking your life confronting MI5 operatives, I suppose you have,' Mycroft could not resist the jibe.

'I'll allow you that one. It was a really stupid thing to do. I'll try not to be so impulsive in the future.'

The two men looked at one another, in silence, for a good few moments then Sherlock offered his hand,

'Truce?' he asked.

Mycroft took the hand and repeated,

'Truce.'

As they rose to leave the study, the lunch bell sounded so they made their way to the dining room. Molly and William were there already. Freddie had been left in the Nursery, with his two cousins and Sara, who would eat lunch with the other staff, later.

Molly looked at Sherlock's face, as he entered the dining room and was relieved to see his demeanour had altered considerably. He came straight over and pressed his lips to her temple before taking the seat next to her. She smiled and reached for his hand, under the table, knowing that he would tell her all about it, when they were alone together.

ooOoo

**I tried to pull this all together in one chapter but it was just too long, so this is the penultimate chapter. The final one is coming right up!**


	43. Chapter 42

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Forty Two**

Anthea was at her desk, as usual, when Henry Fitzwalter arrived for work, on Monday morning. He strolled in, with his dazzling smile not so in evidence, for once.

'Good morning, Anthea,' he greeted her. 'I'm assuming Macavity arrived home safely on Friday?'

'I'm sorry, sir? Who arrived home safely?' she enquired, feigning ignorance.

'Oh, you know who I mean, Macavity, the Hidden Paw, or should I say Grizabella!' he quipped and then laughed, heartily, at his own irreverent joke.

Anthea fixed him with a cool gaze. She did not glance down at the intercom terminal on her desk but she knew that the green LED light was flickering, since she had pressed the switch to open the link, when her temporary boss entered the room.

'If you are referring to Mr Holmes, sir, yes, he did arrive back safely in the UK, yesterday. Thank you for your concern,' she replied, politely.

'So when is the old git coming back to work? How long do I have to persuade you to give me a spin in the old jalopy, hey?' He was standing right in front of her desk, now. He leaned forward, placing his hands on her desk top, and leering at her, with what he probably thought was a seductive smile. Anthea did not bat an eyelid. She leaned back in her chair, feeling the pressure of the hand gun, clipped under her desk and now pressing against her thigh. She looked him in the eye and said,

'Good morning, sir. Would you like some tea?'

Fitzwalter wrinkled his forehead, with puzzlement.

'You know I drink coffee, in the morning, not tea,' he said.

'I wasn't speaking to you, Mr Fitzwalter,' she answered, with a small, tight smile.

'Well, there's only you and I here, pretty lady,' he drawled, arching his eyebrows, suggestively, 'so who else could you be speaking to?'

'I believe Miss Smith was addressing me, Mr Fitzwalter,' said the familiar voice, behind him.

The Acting HoD froze, his face morphing into a mask of horror, as he recognised that voice. He turned, slowly, to see Mycroft Holmes standing in the doorway to his office. Fitzwalter felt his insides turn to liquid and he swallowed hard, then finally managed to stammer,

M-Mr Holmes, sir, I had no idea….'

'Clearly not, Mr Fitzwalter,' Mycroft interrupted him, raising one eyebrow. He stood to one side and gestured toward his office.

'Do come in, Mr Fitzwalter. I think we need to have a chat.'

The hapless former Acting HoD tottered across the room and disappeared into the other office. Mycroft smiled at Anthea and said,

'I would love a cup of tea, my dear, thank you, and I'm sure Mr Fitzwalter would like a coffee.' He then closed the door and Anthea switched off the intercom.

Having made and delivered the tea and coffee, she sat back in her chair, suppressing a chuckle. The pompous little prat had been told about the secret escape route, from Mycroft's office, under Whitehall and Horseguards Parade, emerging into the army barracks, opposite. The exit strategy had been explained to him. It had clearly not occurred to him that the route could be used, in reverse, to enter the office without being seen by anyone in the building. She didn't feel remotely guilty. The man had hung himself. She wished she could be a fly on the wall for that conversation. Grizabella? Oh, he would regret that comment for the rest of his life!

Anthea was still marvelling at Mycroft's big surprise. She had been intrigued by the details of his instructions, in that momentous email. He had asked her to arrange flight tickets to Boston and entry visas for the two young ladies, whom she had met at Heathrow, prior to their outward journey, in order to escort them through the Departure process reserved for travelling diplomats. She had been instructed to book return tickets – five seats with Sleeper Service – and to have a seven-seater People Carrier waiting, for the journey from the airport to the country estate. And, finally, the champagne and canapé reception had been requested. He had even specified the chateau and vintage of champagne and what should be in the canapés, although Mycroft was always very specific where food and drink was concerned. She had no idea, at the time, who the women were or who the other two returning passengers might be. She knew, now.

Mycroft, at the most relaxed and chatty she had known him to be, had told her, at the reception, how he had looked at scores of CV's and interviewed a dozen women before he selected these two ladies to be the nannies for his children. He said he needed not only excellent child care professionals, but two people who would work well together, as a team. The nannies would provide twenty-four hour care for the babies, working opposite one another, in twelve hour shifts. They would alternate for day and night shift rotations and for weekends off. On the weekends, he would care for his children during the day and the duty nanny would be 'on call' overnight. That way, he said, the nannies would have a good work-life balance and would never be too tired to give the children all the attention they needed. He was mindful, he said, of his own nanny being rather grumpy, on more than one occasion, at being disturbed during the night. His children would never have to tolerate that experience. He was clearly relishing being a 'hands on dad'. She had never seen him so animated on any subject, before.

Anthea's thoughts were interrupted by the opening of Mycroft's office door and the reappearance of a much chastened Henry Fitzwalter. He walked straight over to Anthea's desk and, looking extremely contrite, said,

'Miss Smith, I do apologise for my behaviour toward you during my time as your temporary line manager. I do hope that you will forgive me and that we can return to the excellent professional relationship we enjoyed previously.'

He then stood and looked at her, like a puppy that has been told off for piddling on the floor. She let him suffer for a moment and then said.

'Of course, sir, I look forward to it.'

He nodded, sharply, turned and left the room. A few moments later, Mycroft emerged from his office, with a wry smile playing on his lips.

'I hope he won't bother you again, Anthea, but, if he should, please let me know. I will be working from home for the next two weeks, while I settle the children and the nannies into their new home. Mr Fitzwalter will be returning to his more usual duties, effective immediately.'

ooOoo

Sherlock was shopping. It was not an activity he did very often - in fact, at all, if he could avoid it - but this was a special circumstance. He wanted to buy a book. He walked into the biggest bookshop on Charing Cross Road, a street famous for bookshops. If they didn't have what he wanted here, they wouldn't have it anywhere. He approached the enquiries desk and stood, staring at the top of the head of the shop assistant, who was engrossed in some administrative task, which could surely wait until he had been served. The person failed to look up or acknowledge his presence in any way. He stared even harder at the crown of that head but still to no avail. At last, his short patience exceeded, he reached out and banged the bell that sat on the counter, for the purpose of summoning staff when the enquiries desk was unoccupied. This did have the desired effect, in that the person jumped and looked up with a startled expression on his face.

'Oh, so sorry! I didn't see you there!' he gabbled.

'I should hope not,' Sherlock replied. 'I would hate to think you were ignoring me deliberately.'

'Oh, no, sir, absolutely not. I do apologise. How may I help you?'

Sherlock placed a piece of paper on the desk.

'I am looking for this book. Do you have it in stock?' he purred, giving his most charming smile. The assistant picked up the piece of paper and scrutinised it closely.

'Yes, sir, I believe we do. One moment, please.'

Sherlock waited, his hands clasped behind his back, whilst the young man scuttled off into the furthest recesses of the back of the shop, and returned, presently, clutching a slim volume with bright, colourful cartoon illustrations on the cover. He handed it to Sherlock, who looked at the front, read the blurb on the back and then leafed through the body of the book before placing it back on the desk and saying,

'Perfect. I'll take it.'

The young man thought about telling his customer to take the book to the check-out to pay but thought better of that and walked to a nearby till, rang in the purchase and took Sherlock's card payment.

'Would you like a bag, sir?' he asked.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, so the young man slipped the book and the receipt into a small plastic bag and handed it to him. He nodded his thanks, turned and left the shop.

Sitting in the cab, on the way home, he took the book from the bag and looked again at the title:

'It's Not the Stork! A Book about Girls, Boys, Babies, Bodies, Families and Friends', by Robie H Harris, illustrated by Michael Emberley.

This would be perfect. He and William were going to have a long-overdue talk.

ooOoo

Mycroft rarely watched the television news, mostly because he preferred to be his own editor and chose what news he attended to but, also, because he usually knew the news, anyway. When he did watch, it was generally to see how well the spin doctors had diverted public attention away from the real news.

Today, he had a personal interest in the lead story. He had waited until the babies were in bed, to have the leisure to sit, in the summer drawing room, with a glass of his favourite single malt and savour the satisfaction the item gave him.

The credits rolled and the theme music played, then the camera settled on the talking head of the news reader, who spoke in a suitably grave tone.

'Tributes were paid, in Parliament today, following the sudden death of Dame Joan Manning, who's body was discovered by her gardener, in the grounds of her home, yesterday morning. A post mortem examination showed that the former Director General of MI5 died from a coronary embolism. She enjoyed a long and distinguished career, as a diplomat, during the 1970's, 80's and 90's and had been head of Home Security for twelve years, before retiring earlier this year. A private funeral, attended by family and friends, will take place next Wednesday.'

Mycroft raised his glass to the images of the lady in question, displayed on the wide screen, as the item showed historical newsreels of Joan Manning's past exploits.

'Best served cold, Dame Joan,' he muttered and knocked back the shot.

ooOoo

**The book, 'It's Not the Stork!', is a real book and I recommend it, for any curious little tots.**


End file.
